I’ve cut the moon open,
so I could see you,
enveloped in a white cloth of light
from a leaking sky.
A premonition of you as the black horse
was right in front of my eyes –
an alluring distraction,
that turned out to be as annoying
as an itchy paper cut.
of a fog-wet grass around my ankles
of your shy attempts to hug me,
wishing it will spark the fire between us,
I remember feeling lukewarm already.
Just from the thought of it…
you make one step back,
then forward –
a zigzag of intercrossing intercourse,
that always tasted better in reverse.
you blend into a thick fog,
giving me that content sense of relief.
Don’t waste your imagination on me,
my tolerance is never coming back.
– Chatty Owl –