What you will write if you are staring at a mountain and all you can think about is a woman wearing blue hat and dancing her ass off the door,
although it seems your death, your motionless literature doesn’t depend on that,
but you know it does. You know you are depriving a great deal of beauty from the reading people.
I know I will write about that woman…I know that’s the only way I can earn my meatless closure.
I fascinate her more when she is not around…the distance is more meaningful than her presence,
that’s the thing with closeness, it grows behind your intangible skins…
I enjoy looking at the horizon of twinkling headlights of returning cars and thinking about her share of silence only by me,
I remember those dry wrinkles around her eyes…
her imperfections.
Imperfection turns me on.
You know you can’t lie being drunk and if you can then you mustn’t be drunk enough,
and there will always be her smell on the pillows and the way she holds her hair like a stick; making music out of ordinariness on my drunken plates.
It’s raining today, I am keeping the lights off and choosing to feel restlessness being in the cold corners of this apartment,
she is some thousands miles away,
there’s a hairband of her on the shelf, some of her unfinished cigarettes inside the ashtray and these dying fingers; living in the memories of her wet tunnel of light and salvation.
I am not seeing any mountain in this shuffled city,
but the idea of writing about her even for the sake of mountains is a poem itself.

Photograph: Donata Wenders.