Each breath of mine has a solid and translucent crust of words,
like the armor of an armadillo
hinting that beyond it
there’s light, there’s sun, there’s warmth,
but there are also fangs and claws.
Sometimes belonging to others,
other times belonging to me.
It only depends on the chaos to which my mind is submitted,
wavering between the innocent insistence of the dog
in its attempt to get
a softer spot on the couch, next to me,
and the noisy complaints of the children
regarding the colours with which they should paint
some book page.
And the taste of the coffee
which I drink alone up to six in the evening,
rambling about how weird is this winter,
mellow and warm
and full of unhappenings,
of unwishes and of bookmarks
huddled in too many volumes
begun and unfinished.
Christmas cleaning had no effect
on my footsteps,
and I see myself forced to admit on a daily basis
(truly, with a certain discomfort)
that “I’ve been here before”
and “I had promised to not go there again”.
And my fingers are heavy with confessions
written only for the sake of writing them,
but believed not even in that fraction of a second
that takes me to smile ironically to the past,
calculating already the probability to date it again,
maybe even on the same street.
Not that it mattered too much – after all
some mistakes are so dear to me
that I keep repeating them, simply for the pleasure
of chatting again over a cup of coffee with them
and with you.

© 2014 Liliana Negoi

originally written in Romanian


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