to be

 there is nothing much to do,

so I pour

90 ml of Rum into my

universe

- a glass -

(sometimes it reflects

the color

of your eyes)

sit near the window

open it

let the night

peep in

with

the rain

the breeze,

and a strange

mellow

light,

(sometimes

it reminds me of your

skin, your

body)

open a book of

poems,

read of love

read that

'there is always

something

to be

made of pain'*

and

I think

of my mother

I think

of you

of poems

that haven't been

written,

I look

at the shadows

in the drizzle

look at

the vast emptiness

before me

listen

to the heartbeats

of the rain

and

write

'there is so much one can do

on a rainy night

like tonight

perhaps, one can hold her,

hold her

wrinkled hands

for a while

or

one can sit and listen

to someone

who is

in pain

cry, weep or laugh

tell the kids

bedtime stories

of living and dying

of love & hate

of memory

& forgetfulness

of agony &

longing

or perhaps

one could tell them

tell oneself

that

it is worth living

that a word,

time and love shared

is more

than eternity,

that

it is

a lullaby

of life,

a gift,

a poem and

a perfume

that lasts

a lifetime!

___________________________________

* From Louise Gluck's poem Love.