Wounded
Clipped dreams, wingless we hover
in our lonely thoughts,
in the abyss of postponement
pass me the napkin
you said
and you wipe the ketchup
from the edge of your lips
attentively and with soft courage
against the breeze that listens
carefully to your wish for
a new adventure to come from
the void and enter your world
and we crawl in our routine
handcuffed and idly
as I refill my wine glass
in the senselessness of my serene
self-absorption
