wandering

The room is dirty, there are loads of white specks scattered all over the floor, we can feel a bump under the feet when walking on a bigger one, an uncanny warmth is floating across, following the path of the wind from one open window to the other, no need for much cloth covering the body, the ivy with its hanging crimson leaves is still climbing the grid on the balcony, and right next to it a grasshoper hanged lethargically on the wall, it hasn't moved from the early hours of the day, the air is vibrating under the insane, lancinating noise of drilling machines nearby, which seems to never pause, the hands are torn, dead scales are pointing out to fall over a caress, scorn is everywhere, soon to be replaced by weariness and relinquishment, dust gathered on the recesses of untouched objects, and what is touched is peeling off, can't love without destroying, and can't live in waiting, people stop tenderly to look at the kittens playing in the growing grass, the dark haired lady doesn't care, she walks straight through the gate to the door and doesn't hold it on to no begging, curtains are drawn, heat waves push people in locked shadows, one message : "you forget that up there for one week now" but indifference, not indifference, rather forgetfullness, all appeal to go out, to decypher those moving poems, to dive into fresh water, to smile back to the eyes that search for you.