The day after I left you I coughed a tiny sticky chick pea
right into my palm ,
the pea that didn't let me sleep
(hiding under my futon mattress)
with you dreaming nakedly and babyly and mouth-open ,
while my eyes went sore staring at the moles on your shoulders
joining them into constellations with my inky nails ,
tumbling, tumbling, tumbling on the sheets
(quietly not to wake you up),
gazing at the ceiling
and trying to catch the dawn, oozing through the curtain ,
but that was just a crack on the paint.
Now you suddenly start sounding like my father ,
(he doesn't believe in fairy-tales either) ,
hence I squash the chick pea on the tiles just like I squashed my vertebrae on the mattress with my scull turning flat just like the humour of it all turned flat so soon and ...
now I enjoy my gem-free, air-conditioned solitude ,
now I sleep on the opposite side of the bed peering into the sky outside the unclothed window ,
now I know I was looking for the stars in all the the wrong places .