When you stood up wearing skinny jeans
And white converses
Your black hair was falling down
Onto concrete floor of contemporary art center
Maybe it was just a shadow of it
But I already knew you –
You’ve come from disappearing country
You’ve come from disappearing tribe
Constantly witnessing decay.

We were also almost disappearing from each others’ sight
In the dusk of gallery hall,
But then you asked somebody to turn on the light,
Because you won’t see more these faces in front of you, –
That was your explanation.
My face was one among those faces
And maybe I could be almost deleted from your memory files,
But somebody turned on the light
And the table to where I was sitting was illuminated first.
I am placed at your palm, my future lover.

You are reading poetry about hands –
How do the same hands might be Nightingales,
And the same hands can be a gun trigger pushers,
How the same hands born a wish to feed somebody
And the same hands born a wish to kill somebody.
I am also borning from your hands –
From squeezing my handbreadth, wrist and an elbow,
Consolidating your fingers’ knots on my hand
And then touching my red cheek with your fist.
You smiled saying:
You’ve got some sun, darling.

Yes, love, I got burned under your heating up lamp,
That’s what I would like to answer, but it was too early to realize it myself.
As if I was keeping my fire matches for myself in order not to burn them all
At once, in order not to transform the sun into solarium.

It’s just the beginning of our light stretch.
When time becomes flatten and flows in
The horizon of sunset.
The beginning.
When motorways of light years are finally crossing
And allowing us to encounter each other.