The last astronuaut

Tomorrow will be 10 years

from that casual day

which started with us and cheap telenovellas

and ended with me holding you, 

breathless

for few hours, in a locked apartment. 

Reality re-questioning.

Such a meaningful day, such a meaningless life.

I'm not sure I would know what to tell you

If you would meet me today,

Not sure you would have what to be proud of,

because

I don't strive to my achievements 

per aspera ad astra,

I don't play piano

anymore,

And I would rather be invited to a brothel

Than to the palace of kings.

It's always about me, right?

Because you are the one who moved on.

(Do you ever get a chance to glimpse at us

through dimensions?)

I've visited you today, you know,

following the hollow cemetery ceremonies of humankind.

Meaningless symbolism. 

Visited also that beautiful girl I knew,

a friend of a friend,

who managed to go away on the same date as you.

Symbolism, again. 

I never believed one of you would ever hear or answer

or even appreciate.

You would not even remember, probably -

Just wake up one morning,

Watching a different sunset

with different eyes.

(I don't need hugs or cheering,

because it is not about sadness -

I'm blooming, but meaningless,

And not sad at all -

It's like being in love with the universe

When you're the last astronaut in the outer space)

Entering samsara

I hope I would live

thousand years more.

If you would be with me now

here, where I am,

you would hope for

the same - 

crossing the streets 

ever tamed 

by urbanization,

inhaling car dust

exhaling star dust,

hearing the voice of the

street performer

singing the "Halleluiah"

(threading each sound right through ya),

standing there, reaching for pockets --

penniless --

nevertheless

still standing there awkwardly

just to admire

instead of paying him for the bread

and crying, crying, crying

with joy.

My lover is a city.

She is so distant yet so inviting and friendly

Her absence in every second of me feels more and more surreal

I have others, and they are beautiful, all of them.

Each is a shiny crystal, playing music of rainbow chords.

But none of this music awes me anymore

Like the sound of her silent snowfall 

The sound of her rainy tears

The sound of her cold cloudy laughter 

That makes you feel warmer than summer desert.

I miss waking up next to her impeccable grunge,

Her messy being herself, her dirty politeness - 

if she would be my lover she would wear

19th century jacket with knee-torn jeans

and DIY patches saying "punk is not dead". 

If she was my lover we would go out for pumpkin latte

and indulge ourselves with a classical music concert,

discussing it afterwards over feeding the ducks in the pond

and selfying around in a hipster photography booth.

But she could never be mine,

because she's a city.

I can throw myself to her patched-jeans knees and hope

That something would happen out of this wicked love.