december

 About a hole in the wall as big as the sky.
About the shooting star.
About you.
And my speech, and the words written about you, insult both you and me.
And I can't keep quiet.
I can't forget the night and the dead bum.
The dead man's stiff fingers and my dream in which you wandered.
Are you still hiding the blind crow that they gave you, not to go crazy?
Do you believe the moon is green when viewed through bars?
Do you see a stranger sneaking on you on a horse, by the lake?
They say that your beard has started to grow, that your hair has turned white.
That they saw you walking around the cemetery.
Do you still dream of the same thing they stole from you?

Are you afraid of people?
You were always afraid of people.

It's just you and me.
No way to leave this city, nowhere to escape from this dream.
I'm starting to hate you.
Not much.
As a friend without whom you can't… who knows too much about you…
Which you know too much about.

Don't be mad at me if you're still alive somewhere, if you read this poem.

This is not a poem, anyways.