Love Is a Gamble

Sadness is something pure. It is personal and gentle, it happens quickly or drifts for years but always goes without a trace. It comes and goes quietly. It does not point to anyone, does not answer questions and leaves nothing.

Besides some unfinished story.

I’m talking to you, but the moment I talk to you, the universe is being built and broken. You and I are cosmos.

We look and see each other differently. Heaven each sees it according to his own piece of land under his feet. It is either full of miracles or just a black square.

And we are infinite. You can look at me ceaselessly as I sleep, wondering in which universes I raise my voice for pointless issues and whether it's always to you. For eternity I can examine and study all the stars, dust and nebulae that make up your galaxy.

And I will fall in your black holes, without being cautious as I hope you will always be there for me to drag me out. But they are terribly deep and prosaic. They continue for days to full exhaustion and nothing is able to leave them, even the light. They damn all my attempts to stay away from you and create equations with a few unknowns in which the answer is always coming out as you. In the meantime, we are circling around each other as retrograde planets that seem to compromise at every turn.

It turns out that even in space the doors are banging with ugly noise, the plaster falls and the locks are broken. All the poems we have written together are ink-stained.

And exactly when there is nothing left of us, I remember that everything rhymes with your name only; otherwise, it is just a collection of occasional words of a contemporary writer, scattered in space.

Without you, existence makes sense as much as a scratched gramophone plate. You and I are cosmos.

And in space, we can feel the absence of gravity. This sometimes means losing control, but most of the time we soar. And at those moments where we need to step on the ground for a bit, it is enough to just snuggle with you and tell you about the universe in my heart.

I only need you, two chairs and before us a forever changing scenery. Sometimes I need a veranda with a white landscape at the front and two steaming cups of tea, silence, and snow on rags. Sometimes - two folding chairs in the sand and wave sounds; or two wooden chairs in the middle of the forest and a resin scent. It may even be just the two chairs at home by the window and every breakfast with chamomile cups of tea, baked pumpkin and honey with expiry date for the rest of our lives.

However... love is a gamble, men lick their lips so they can lubricate their lies and my life slowly turns into a flower that I cut shortly, repeating to myself: he loves me, he doesn’t love me…