12

Lips.
Kiss swollen, even though
the only time
they have touched other lips
it was my
mother that woke me up
with a small peck.

10

I think I might have fallen.

Yes.

In love, I mean. With you, I mean.

With the curve of your lips when they stretch to a smile. With your laugh and your voice when you call my name. 

With your blond hair and light skin and the way your ideas make no sense at all or the way they make after all. 

But I am on the other side of the window, looking from outside to inside with my face pressed to the glass and i wish you'd notice

or put flowers to your hair even once

9

a moment of clearness, only dark behind the glass of the library door. I'm going out, entering the outside world.

The door swings to close and there it is, a second of snowing inside. White against dark - but my world mixing with the other.

what number is this even supposed to be

I was sitting by an table in a house of an old childhood friend yesterday. 

We were in a hurry, almost late from a hobby that we have been attending since we were around ten years old, her mother was making us toast while she was changing her clothes in a room next to the kitchen and I couldn't do anything but smile.

Her home was practically a second home to me when I was younger and even though her house has changed place (twice) during the last few years the place is somehow more a safe-place than my own home is.

We were in a hurry, she was eating her toast with big bites and arguing a bit with her mother and I was smiling and swallowing down a laugh. Because it was the way everything was supposed to be.

7

Few months back, someone sat behind me in a bus.
Red haired girl or young woman, no one special really.

She peeked behind my shoulders, reading the text i was writing from my pocket fitting moleskin. I took a risk on writing what I wrote, big dreams, big secrets and when I got off the bus she looked at me like she could see through me.

We shared a moment, looking to each others eyes (nothing romantic) and I almost laughed at it. She knew who I was and I will, hopefully, never see her again.

6

Snow.
The whole ugly world drowning in white, gasping for life before dropping the leaves. It's been like this for few months, the cold turns my breath straight to ice and I still refuse to close my jacket.
Dark comes at 5 pm but before the light leaves completely the world turns to blue for awhile. There is a scientific reason for it - somehow the dark dribbles only blue light through it. So many artists and poets inspired by it, and then there is me. Standing on top of a hill and thinking "was that it?"

don't mind me

"I can't stop thinking about grandpas hand," my mother says quietly. "I was holding it and now I just keep seeing it, he's hand."
I close my eyes and turn my face away. I don't do feelings, not even when someone dies.