The face in the mirror like a tomb where someone still lights cigarettes is the line I would have copied out. I have read it four or five times now and I still cannot decide whether it is the grimmest picture in the whole piece or the most alive one. The clocks carrying on without knowing some hours weigh more than years stayed with me as well. Do you write these at that hour, with the candle going, or after?
When the Night Has Not Yet Ended
Thought
Thought
The face in the mirror like a tomb where someone still lights cigarettes is the line I would have copied out. I have read it four or five times now and I still cannot decide whether it is the grimmest picture in the whole piece or the most alive one. The
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There are nights when the soul
does not wish to die —
it merely wishes
for the world to stop asking
why it is still here.
So I light a candle,
not to illuminate the room,
but to watch its slow agony.
The flame dances like someone
who knows they are going to be abandoned.
And I understand.
Everything I have loved
seemed destined to leave:
the hands, the names,
the promises,
even those versions of myself
that swore they would remain.
Perhaps living is this:
a long funeral ceremony
for everything that still breathes.
I walk through the streets
like a man who has forgotten
whether he is returning home
or merely searching
for somewhere he can disappear
without causing a disturbance.
The clocks continue.
How cruel.
They do not know that some hours
weigh more than years.
In the mirror,
my face resembles a tomb
where someone still lights cigarettes.
I ask the reflection:
— After all, what are we waiting for?
It does not answer.
Perhaps because it already knows.
Perhaps because I know.
Outside, dawn begins to rise
with that almost divine indifference
of something that has never had to
ask forgiveness for existing.
And, for a moment,
I think of opening the window.
I do not know whether to let the night in
or finally let it out.
The candle is almost gone.
The city remains awake.
And I remain here,
my hand upon the handle,
not knowing whether I am about to leave...
or simply
open the door to another day.
Thoughts
-
The face in the mirror like a tomb where someone still lights cigarettes is the line I would have copied out. I have read it four or five times now and I still cannot decide whether it is the grimmest picture in the whole piece or the most alive one. The clocks carrying on without knowing some hours weigh more than years stayed with me as well. Do you write these at that hour, with the candle going, or after?
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There are nights when the soul