"Owls are not what they seem"
You gaze at me,
I gaze out the window
as
we both touch the same wallpaper,
peeling,
but the patterns stain fingers
in different colours –
my green is your no
and your blue is the new red.
Mix it up.
Shake it,
but the results are always the same –
dirty brown.
Like an out of date rainbow.
– Chatty Owl –
Come.
A bit closer.
Do you remember how you used to toy around
with my fingers
while
I toyed with your heart
and we both blamed the playful moods
and
relationship faux pas?
Jealousy used to leak
like words
out of our mouths
and we soaked them all back
with our brittle lips
and dry kisses
of rehearsed attraction.
Do you remember,
how you didn’t complain
and I didn’t mention
that I notice it?
– Chatty Owl –
I enjoy
the sound of spilled water.
Not the one under the bridge,
but the one leaking from the sky
in the colour of dirty milk.
It soothes me.
The taste of it
reminds me of that coral sharpness
that we both feel in our throats
when I get under your skin
and
you get under my clothes –
I’m always one and a half
steps ahead of you.
Wrap up warm,
my actions sting more
than the white rain outside our windows.
– Chatty Owl –
Sceptical opinions
lose their power
in virtual attractions
and like players
of some surreal game
we transfer binary codes
to the streets of our city,
in a form of shared coffee cups
and coldness of our hands.
I crave your brave actions
of (non)shown affection,
that you claim to have
towards me
and
you tease my patience
with a harsh lack of promises,
because you know I’m addicted
to this sweet torture
of yours.
– Chatty Owl –
Your words
are stronger
than my own hands,
squeezing
my fast beating heart
in moments
of a desperate anxiety,
making it
too difficult to breathe
and so easy
to cry.
And I do,
until salty tears
become a
tasteless aftertaste
of the decision
that
I need you.
Now.
– Chatty Owl –
I fall asleep
to the sound of the clock,
that stopped weeks ago,
but I like hearing things
that are not present for days now.
I drift away
into a sleepless dream about you
and our dreamless sleepovers
together,
where the tone of your voice
is the perfect alarm
in the never-coming morning.
We fall asleep
to my body belonging to yours
and
we never say a word,
when it’s time to leave,
because I hate asking questions
and
you’ve already asked yours.
– Chatty Owl –
Not you.
I spill.
The drink.
Across the table.
Wet.
Like me.
Not you.
You curse.
Not me.
I smile.
It’s wet.
Me, not you.
You want it.
Wetter.
Me. Not you.
It’s you.
And me.
– Chatty Owl –
I wait.
I pace.
I trip over my own shadow,
(deliberately),
because I want to find a reason for the pain
that lives inside me.
Memories about you
fade,
but not my anger,
that’s always present,
digging in,
like the bleakest night in arctic.
I sip cold coffee –
a reminder of those long evenings,
when you weren’t here,
and
I want to dilute my drink
with hot, salty tears,
(deliberately),
just so I could feel
some sort of taste
in this room of total confinement.
I want to hate you,
but I’m afraid
that’s too strong of an emotion,
so I just continue
to long for you,
(de-
li-
be-
ra-
te-
ly-)
because it’s more self-destructive
this way.
And i like it.
– Chatty Owl –
Once
I had the urge for you,
similar to that feeling you get
after a night out,
when all you want to do
is get home
and be comfortable
under the warm covers,
except that
covers are always soft
and I turned harsh
on you
right now.
I despise
how your tongue
forks out lies
in a form of honey-glazed words
and how your mouth
turns into the shape
of the infinity,
as you disguise your mistakes
in candy-coated letters
as
I eye you up,
and my sympathy
turns into anger,
which turns into inspiration,
that I’m not gonna thank you for,
because
me opening my mouth
is only good for other things,
and they surely
are not
please’s and thank you’s.
– Chatty Owl –
Carefully placed fingers
press
against the pale shades of my skin,
that shivers in silence
and only evaporating heat
can be heard
in the still hours of this darkness.
Accidentally visible shadows
on the light blue wall
touch each other and
dance
to the music of their own movements,
forcing you to look up
and me to observe
– us –
in the form of faceless reflections
that are black in colour.
Your lips purposely sting mine
as I touch you
with a kiss,
which forces my crossed legs
do the opposite.
Trip over me, so we have a reason to touch.
– Chatty Owl –
CHATTYOWL 