your glorious indifference

i wrote u back

i see you walking by the riverside, where the ugliness
of the rest of the world doesn't reach and you look sad,
no, you look tired of this goddamn town, of the repetition,
of other things that you hated since last time i saw you.
one time you told me that you used to write disgusting poems
about girls and your god – whoever the fuck he may be.
you told me about the wars in your mother country and
about all the people you know from Asia, South Africa
and Eastern Europe and how most of them used to be your
lovers and used to sleep in your bed.
so now you open your cherry mouth and say,
Oh, You're Growing Up.
but baby, i've been growing for a while now,
i don't know if you could tell from over there.
we both know it's been a while since i last touched your skin,
soft like wheat fields.
i heard somewhere that you went away, you travelled away
and wrote other disgusting poems about new people and the
beautiful girl that sleeps in your bed now.
even though you're all grown up, you still never sleep with
your doors unlocked.
do you mistrust the world or are you just scared of what's on the other side?
but you're just twenty-something,
you're not a prodigy and you're not a messiah, all you are is a man.
i loved you like a punch in the face,
like a kick in the stomach and i would have loved you more if
i had put more effort into it but that didn't happen because
i was young and my moods got lower and my letters to you got sadder.
but i wrote you back. i always did.
i know you never cried. but i did.
i cried in the park, i cried watching television, i cried
underneath the sun and bitter tears burned holes in my cheeks.
i cried for everyone who ever loved you and didn't know what
to do with it. i cried for everyone who ever left you.
now you can do what you want and curse me or step all over
me with the pair of most expensive shoes you own, but
i wrote you back. i always did and god forbid me of telling
you that i still do.