there is no last day of mourning.
there are always so many deaths waiting in line.
there are days when I wish I could say
this is the last day of mourning.
my head underneath a foggy blanket of memories and half-regrets.
those days behind closed doors, closed windows,
fire burning, the small green kitchen
the table, the chair.
there is no last day of cold feet or warm blankets.
there is no last day of forgetting or forgiveness.
there is no such thing as wanting to stop.
there is always wanting to rest
your head on someone else’s shoulder.
there is fear and camomille tea
there are fingertips running on his spine,
not mine, not hers, nobody’s.
there is no last body to be conquered, only bits and pieces
and black and white sighs.
there is no last eye to be wide shut,
only mirrors and black holes, sucking you dry.
photos taken by Valeriu Cătălineanu in January and February 2013