RETIRW

It's the weirdest thing
..how I look up to you and want to reach out and shake hands with you. sit down in the twilight corner of a dive bar and blow smoke rings in the air because in this bar we could smoke. And I would. And I would drink wine, red, and you would probably drink something harder. All of you. Cognac, Whiskey, Vodka maybe a Martini. I can't even name it. All I know is that I drink it red because I suck the color the way you suck my attention. The buzzing sound in my head is just background noise.
It's the weirdest thing how I never seem to be able to reach up though. How I cough blood up and sometimes it pleases you. Oversatiated vampires that have hooked my soul.
I dream of being equal to you. Of being able to talk to you about the ghosts and the lost ones, the ones who inspired you. About the ways of melting the hidden gold of life into the jewelry of words, black on white or reverse. About the art of writing, of moving in the fourth dimension.
And then again, I would have to talk more about you than about those ghosts because it was mostly you who inspired me and not them. And if I have ever moved in your dimension it was a child's dream, a scent of blossoming apple trees somewhere far far away but never here. That's the very reason I can't shake your hand.
It would fall into dust and the airwaves of my voice would blow it away. Into all five directions. Your hand would simple cease to be and I would have to go on and chase it somewhere else. In someone else's attention.
In the damned unsatisfying approval of a strangers eyes. A lost conversation in the bus or on the bench. A letter smuggled into a homeless' bags, with some dirty one dollar bills folded into a piece of old news-paper.
It's the weirdest thing how sometimes your look alone can make my night and inspire me to write better. To heat the fire and melt the metal. Find the gold and gracefully pour it into forms that speak for themselves. To dig deeper. To fall harder. To fly higher. Defy the cliche and nourish it during dusk and dawn. Never black and white - only sometimes.
It's the weirdest thing how I am craving your voice to be my echo.

And how seldom it happens
And how little I care, like in a puzzle.