seaside







I can't just behold and not say something,
it's much too big just to stay
there, unfolding,
not to be touched, in front of me.

It's calling:
his streaky, invisible hair,
tickles my nose.
Little fingers of scent,
feathers the flying fish
lost long ago…

'Come to me!', you say,
'scratch me,
dissect me and make your pen
define me
and in doing so, change me into something
that I am not
.

Make me pretty as a picture.
If only you knew…
'cos you don't know who am I,
who I was,
when we first got together…

How do you dare
to tell me you can write me?
'