flowing bliss
touching softly the core of my being


reminding me the gift
that it is

when an almost stranger


gently unties a knot and releases
a desire for being in touch
with your aliveness.



to smile in return –
an act
of effervescent gratitude.

I am drowning silently in dreams of others


those fragile footsteps left by wandering eyes
in the stillness of a summer night -




somewhere in these truths
are the eyes I long to see

the eyes that make my heart blaze with fiery passion
for breathing
for living


for longing to feel the sun's warmth on my face
in a far-away land


longing to be touched by people
I've yet to meet



and know
in the deepest wells of my mind's imagination



that intimate yearning for a place to call home.

the simplest beauty


(a mutual understanding)


this little implausibility
of just a few millimetres

a stillness only unbroken
by silence


and such a long draft
of moonlight
beaming between our lips



to know
and not to kiss -


enticing
intoxications

of a long night's minute.

The sound of rain now,
so soft on the snow –
almost like silence.

there is something about
train platforms on a sunny weekend


full of unseen little
stories


a tough-looking young lad
clinging discreetly onto his girl's coat
her hands comfortably in his pockets


an older lady
leaning a bit too forward against her partner's figure
looking up and saying
nothing
(wishing only
a few more silent signs)



unseen rivers of hope
streaming down human cheeks


the same flesh and skin
that smiles at a lousy joke -
a cheeky little bedside pun
from a lover's memory of long ago.

the same cheeks that feel the slight changes in the wind
as one looks around from the top of a high hill
one used to climb as a kid


and here is wildness
an unexplored, unexplained part of human tears
unexpectedly finding its way on the concrete ground
of the platform
separating, for now
her lips
from his
as that moment goes by
and that one
and that one.

retracing one's steps on fresh snow


admiring the glimmering beauty
of snowflakes gliding earthwards

unhurried

outlining crudely the branches of a thousand pines


to feel the sun's warmth in the crispy dry air
of an arctic february
and know that it's there

(always)




to be in the presence of earth galore


a fleeting sensation
of grounding

in the wilderness within

losing a fear of emptiness



and upon returning
to the dusty reality of being


one has traversed
already


the longest road
to seeing


the blunt knife
and the uncarved rock


the unbleached sophistication
of hearing beauty


in those almost silent mornings
of snowfall choreography