last century, night was day was night and day again

your scent on the pillows and the bed sheets is gone. worn off. night is yawning, lazy and bored of all the affairs she witnessed in the shades. sun should be coming out soon, but it seems it`s going to be late this morning. streets are grey and quiet. even the autumn sleeps. and i can`t find any shadow of you in the house.
my mind is constantly searching for some rest, my fingertips are constantly searching for the warmth of your body, your skin, your messy dark hair in the late night.
peaceful breath in the early sunshine, the twist of a shy curl over your moving eyelids, hot hands curling my body into the dreams that chase away the shiver, the yesterday, maybe the time itself.i hear the minutes dripping off on the cold floor, seconds scratching the colors off the walls, hours howling at the moon. but i can`t hear what makes me drift off into the dream world: the rhythm of you breathing in your sleep.

fragrance from a honeysuckle

the world has your smell.

the cool evening air sifting through the open window bears memories of distant summer nights. memories of us lying in the whispers of the full moon, in the whispers of our blood running frantic through our veins.

crickets singing in the darkness, underneath the big stars, the only light when the moon is new, the only shimmer in your dark, in my dark dreams.

the smell of cold rain upon the hot city streets, the simmer of the concrete underneath the big rain drops, the tremble in our bodies as we listened to the rain singing on the rooftop of your balcony.