You are an out-of-season flower
And you keep asking everyone
if they identify with Kierkegaard's
Either//Or.

​

The times you closed on me
All the times I tried to be your reprieve
And all those texts you sent in the morning
Ersatz emotions
Anything to feel closer to you.

​

Call me if you are sinking
Mid-sentence,
Mid-death.
or, on a day
You feel like
Will never end.

​

in this infinite, dainty universe
on a soft afternoon
You wear your mother’s
Byzantine Ruby Cross.
in a runaway yellow cab,
You drive trough
A curvilinear tunnel
Away from your faith
And Into the night.

​

Do you want to see the inside
of my room at night?
That is darkened for good.
What happens afterwards
Do we fucks like Seraphims?

​

Even as you hang
From the railing of
My one-bedroom apartment
With your favourite book
That you have not yet read
And your finger on the pa
You claim to find God in.

​

So much of you
is so far from here.

Adrianne Kalfopoulou once wrote.
In grief, we keep reaching for
What is not there.

​

You are a hollow fantasy,
Born of my own selfish desire
Before me, I see flashes
of a vast, empty cathedral
You are on your knees.

​

A place I will never reach in life
And that will forever
Remain out of reach.
I will never be able to
Hear your confession

​

or

​

Never be able to
Free you from this nauseating
Confines of this fleeting,
Eternal Halloween.

​

To remunerate,
I want to spend
The remaining of my days
Writing you a poem every day
Until my hand breaks.