You
You could always touch me
without your fingertips.
I felt your warm breeze
even from a distance.
Romance?
It is not romance,
you're my great friend
you're my solid, dark, twisted
non-existent but coherent friend
you live wherever I want you to.
And with or without your fingertips,
you always touch me, you always take me wherever I order you to
but without my permission.
Fun, or funny. You can be both.
Creative I would say, how you always dwell on that web of yours
like the three sisters of fate, you decide mine.
Do I want you to?
Oh my dearest friend, you have taken me everywhere.
Through endless places, somewhere I couldn't be, yet I was.
My dearest friend, we would be sitting in a French cafe,
you with your undesirable desire of jumping over a bridge
making every tragedy you list possible become reality.
And I would stare at you, with a dead cigarette, a red dress and a smile on my face.
Did I kill you?
You will come back.
Like you always do, like a black cat that wants to die but somehow manages every time.
You, my dearest friend, you are everyone's friend, yet you never are.
Everyone sees you, but you are much more different.
And everyone's cafe, everyone's bridge, everyone's cigarette differs.
But your thought remains. Like that rainy smell lingering upon the grass, it will not disappear until the sun is finally up.
My sun is not up, but I walk in the rain, with a raincoat, an umbrella, and a black cat.
