alternative journey in Amsterdam

there are countless realities 

this can be real somewhere

 

I am going home from Amsterdam

convincing myself

it was caused by a haze of

the hypnotizing breezes

to find words to capture

random tinglings in my mind

was it I who planted them there when we talked

or was it you who lit them up when you left


 

It’s funny

How all we talk about is love

But you never seemed to have heard mine


 

I remember going through that tunnel

Under Rijksmuseum

on a black bike breathing laboriously

pulled by the strings of the quartet and the timelessness

of its bricks and chilly air

I never felt so small

Yet so significant


 

the coffee was bitter

but I saw you drink it

so I did the same

that’s the closest thing I can get to understand

how you feel the bitterness

is it like mine.


 

out of all the worn dark-green benches along the canals

we chose this one with carelessly drawn graffitis and slowly falling paint

this particular one to make memories of

this is no reason why –––

somewhere in time and space

we were there together with the same thoughts and beats

the running of the cool summer streams

it is enough to make the wooden bench

cradle of a future out of many

a mark in history

 

 

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