I know a poet in another country where it’s warm. He lives of wine and young women who doesn’t bother looking behind the veil. He lives in a almost empty flat where he spends his morning covering the walls with scraps of his former life and enticing illustrations.
Every afternoon he steps outside to sit amongst the people he tells the truths to.
Now and then I think I’m still here. Sitting on his floor in lotus position while he tells me about myself. Truths that disappear in the absurdity of our everyday life, and how I’m too young to know whats real, and what was shards of memories he picked off me while I was sleeping there in the afternoon. Curled up while he was smoking.
I collect these men, men who think they reach me in a place I can’t reach myself. But everything I want from them is myself in the sunshine, and how they will remember me as young and slightly broken. It’s the only way I can be immortal.