a night of a friday on the table next to many empty bottles
i have a penholder two packs of cigarettes
a desk lamp and a notebook.
on my white hairs my biggest regret
                                  begins lingering like an old king
and there is a discussion between my wish and the greedy scissors
i leave them alone but take my cigarettes
                                            squeeze the song with a punch
then wear my trench coat and respectively open the door of my room apartment and buildings.
i am good at opening. but closing. but forgetting.

outside. it is cold. i light a cigarette. my hands need yours more than ever my dear. can i call you my dear. “yes you can.” ohh really. “yes why not.” oh thank you my dear. what a beautiful thing to call someone my dear in the twenty first century don’t you agree with me my dear- “stop it. “ okay okay. I forgot what i was telling you. hands. that’s right. the hands. i am tired of carrying them. they are like a sign of my loneliness. i cannot hide them. or they are like a flag that belongs somewhere in the middle east which is attacked by the other flag that has many stars. i didn’t like comparing hands to the flags. hands my dear hands. hands explain everything. have you ever seen a dishwasher’s hands in a cheap bar on a woman’s hip. the hands of a laborer on the subway. the hands of prostitutes. in istanbul the hands of fishers. prostitutes and fishers move slowly but their hands are fast. i remember there was an august behind your hands in december we were not cold but trees trees were coughing. why don’t you hold my hands to let me feel crowded again.  ha. my dear. are you there. my dear. you are not there.

at midnight after a long shift when an officer buys some fruits from a fruit truck the authority of the country vanishes. there is no border no rules anymore. no passport. no fence. when lights turn green you should cross.

did i come early. or am i late. where are you. where are you. are you in paris. la. tell me how are you. how you are in paris. in la how you are. how is paris how is la. how is paris when you are there. when you are in la how is la. how are they when you are not there. tell me.

no one can hear me understand me. no one. there is only one person who understands me. it’s not you. you have changed.

you are not a woman anymore. you are not a woman anymore. you are a few women. a few people. the one who pays her drinks. the one who dreams of men that they are naked and i am not -fortunately or unfortunately- one of them. the one who reads a book in a subway. the one who doesn’t like wearing a bra. the one that never walks home alone. always starts a date without finishing the other one.

you are a drug is taken by the eyes. i wish i didn’t know you. i wish i forget you at all. forget your lust. forget your passion your infidelity. then i would have disgraceful bliss i would be a homeless and live in the train stations. every day i would wait for some food in front of the church at 6 pm on the corner of west avenue 86th street. upper west side. i would steal things from people. masturbate each night. touch the paintings in museums.

i get to grand central. there are too many signs where should i go now. grand central doesn’t look at my face. it is ashamed of me. i randomly want to take a train to get the fuck out of here.

i have changed too. no one can recognize me. i have changed. i cut my beard leave a mustache. i have changed. i lost my hair. a few days ago angelica saw me but she didn’t recognize me. but as you know we always used to hang out together on the weekends. she always ordered a glass of sancere and pasta. i never knew why.

to be more lonely i left my loneliness. i don’t want to see even my shadow.

i end up in a bar. order a glass of pinot noir
there is quite an ugly woman who serves me
her voice is as if it’s crying
                            slapping my ears
my face is flushed.
her hands are bony her smile like once upon a time.
i  pay 26 dollars for three glass of wine plus 6 dollars for the service.

i leave the bar. the street lights are begging me. they look miserable. tired. actually they look how i see them. i light a cigarette. i am sure the young poet mathew weitman describes them better  than me.

when i met him i already knew him. he knew me. we have known each other since the first poem we read in different countries. we’ve known each other. no picture no name. we’ve known each other since the first human sang a song in the mountains. since when the first woman made necklaces with the bones of a bison instead of throwing them away in the first era.  since the first kid began to carve a drawing on a rock. we’ve known each other since a man wants the weight of a woman on himself. since a woman wants the weight of a man on herself. since the first fence is pulled we have known each other. no name no picture. we recognized each other when we met.

in the twenty-first century there is no poet poetier than the young poet mathew weitman.

if I call him now we’ll meet for sure. for sure we’ll drink and talk about you talk about poetry art. when we go out to smoke we’ll see people for sure. lots of people. and we’ll think of people then for sure we’ll become quiet. i don’t like people. he doesn’t like people. we don’t like people.  people don’t like me don’t like him don’t like us. we don’t like each other. once i touched the people they were like corpses. i was scared washed  my hands since then i never touched them.

instead of calling him i call a girl. and while waiting for her i look at myself and see the difference between i am unhappy and i am not happy.

***

Photo by Luke Besley on Unsplash