I have reasons to believe blue must be a lonely colour.

Not only because it is the colour of the sky, the sea, of such vastness that no other colour can compete against.
Not even because it is the colour of sadness. (one has the "blues", not the "greens")

But rather, I think that blue is a lonely colour
mostly because


it was the last colour to be named.

the spacing


of

words





an invitation


to
surprise


lost

(
in
the
)



maze of




meaning..




where
is




the



honest beautyof


simply




arranging







things?

a familiar little melancholy kicks in

like the last couple of puffs of a joint being passed around
a group of good friends

now it's just my turn
(nothing more, nothing less)

the tips of my fingers tingling with reality
as memories gently stir that line between the conscious
and the unconscious


like a half-remembered song
sitting somewhere between your lips
and nothing


it's as if I made eye contact with the city
for the first time
and fallen in love (again)
with its every move
its every smile

the way it sleeps


the harrowing complexities accompanying
the feeling of leaving a place
that's just started feeling like home


(daydreaming about London
in London.)

life – but in the end
the only thing that matters
clarity of mind.

we think we're lucky –
look at the swallows! they sing
they dance in the air

πλάκα έχει να'χεις φτερά


νά'ρθω μαζί σου?

λαδωμένα τα χέρια μου
με ελληνική φιλοξενία

ένα χαμόγελο αμυδρά
χαράζει στην καρδιά μου

τις λεπτές (σχεδόν αόρατες)
έννοιες μιας αρετής

που αναγνωρίζει κανείς
σε κάποιου αγνώστου την ματιά

αργά το βράδυ -
σαν έναν κλέφτη που γνωρίζει

τον άλλο χωρίς να ειπωθεί
(τίποτα).