• Poetry

    A dark room

    In a dark room of shadows, there’s so much to see, so much to hide and find. Look better, it’s all dark and monochrome. But if you look sharper, you’ll lose yourself, floating in the dark with long-lost thoughts that once lit the way. Now, if you keep walking, you’ll find so much more… There’s a doll, in the shadows of the past, that’s where you hold it tight, scared like a little kid which you were afraid to let go. There’s a suitcase between the glare and the moon. There you are, lying on it, keeping it from the sight of strangers. And in the middle of worn boards,…

  • Poetry

    Is love salvation?

    She taught him that love saves, that it had always planned to put them together, inventive and strong, unique and true, that life is only worthy because of it and that people should indulge themselves fully. She showed him that a smile is most valuable when followed by infatuation, because of all the little things that make the whole world. A seemingly silly habit, random looks, humble and hopeful, talks about simple things that turn into those conversations where they find each other in words, in the places in them where no one has ever stepped before. And every little thing she did, consciously or unconsciously, became something without which…

  • Poetry

    Love as matter

    Love, as matter, cannot be created, nor destroyed. We were born in it, sometimes unfulfilled, but never without it. Filled to the edge of our souls with love, we spend our whole lives trying to pour it out into someone who loved a little too much, a little too late, too much for some, and now is left a little emptier than before. Or someone, who loved a little less. Or someone, who isn’t ready to be whole. Love is like matter. Although one cannot create it or destroy it, sometimes it can destroy us. And in other definitions, love creates us, elaborates and builds us from fragments of our…

  • Poetry

    Thirteen

    She was thirteen when she felt the need to change the world. Seventeen, when she stopped daydreaming. Eighteen, when she lit her first cigarette. It burned brighter than the flames inside her. She wrote her dreams on paper, but she didn’t put the paper in a bottle and throw it into the ocean. Instead, she buried her wishes in the yard, hoping that one day a tree will rise there. A tree whose leaves will not fall off and change colors, and that it will look natural when it turns seventeen. She was twenty-one years old when her eyes glowed the last time. Twenty-three, when even a false smile faded…