Mirror back my heart.

You never know with these things.

What makes you sad or what makes you fall for someone.

Silently she consumed all the love she had.

She barely said a word.

She didn’t move her hands.

She barely moved her hips.

They would meet late at night.

She would be nervous and smoke all the menthol cigarettes

she had in the house.

She would take a shower and

 wait for him to come over.

He wouldn’t touch her first.

She wouldn’t touch him first.

They would sit next to each other in the kitchen,

 barely talking, barely moving.

Drinking beers and smoking cigarettes.

His black boots on the green floor.

His long white hands on the table.

His long black hair in the sink.

His stringy legs in the shower.

She still thinks of him naked.

She still thinks of how he likes to sleep,

sticking his feet out of bed.

She still wonders if she should have said something.

She still wonders if she should have moved more.

If she should have talked less

or served more drinks.

There’s a mirror on his back.

He barely mirrors, as he mostly wears black.

Mirror, back, my heart.

Mirror, mirror – bright and tall –

it does hurt before you fall.

 [ pictures taken by Horia Stan for the Lookool blog

last pictures taken in Bucharest

wearing a Sweet Paprika dress ]

poem written in remembrance of the boy who almost always wore black