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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Strike of Disappointment in the Smoky Room It worries me how you look at my face like a lost map, you get excited for no reason as if the reason is hidden inside me, I seem lost with the glass in my hand but the hand holds me instead, what you believe is right isn't even half right or true. It's cold outside because of my expression frozen from summers, take the scarf and wrap it around my neck that doesn't breathe, loosen my tie that squeezes me like a tamed snake, at least now at least in this moment suspended in air. I try to avoid the disappointment waiting for me at the corner silently, at least now at least until reality wakes up from its sleep, I turn the pages with one finger at a time with fingers of time, right foot crossed while you smoke your patient cigarette. The room is on the couch nobody takes photos because everything is real, I throw my arms around you bear witness to this silent ritual, stripes on my shirt you can read between the lines what isn't written there, you sip champagne I sip red wine and the difference separates us. You don't care that I'm watching you don't care about the green electric tension, please excuse me while I dance I forgot to mention that, I go on strike at least now at least for the present moment, I try to avoid the disappointment that comes like a predictable storm. It worries me the way you misread me like an upside-down book, you rejoice without sense and the sense is somewhere in its clear lack of sense, I seem lost but actually I'm found in my profound lostness, your justice is unjust and my injustice is the only living justice. It's cold on my face that burns inside with hidden cold flames, your scarf suffocates me gently gives me air when you tighten it on my neck, the loosened tie is tighter than when it was completely tight, at least now we're here at least until we disappear from ourselves. I turn pages with fingers that read the Braille of invisible time, your crossed foot draws sacred geometries in the thick air, the room sleeps on the couch dreams photos that will never be, I throw my arms like a net in which you want to be caught free. The stripes on my shirt are Morse codes of silence speaking, you drink liquid light I drink transparent and red darkness, you watch me not watching the tension that binds us like an invisible thread, I dance forgetting I exist I forgot to tell you I'm disappearing now. I go on strike against the disappointment that's already here present, at least now I remain motionless at least until I move again, I avoid what cannot be avoided just postpone the beautiful inevitable, at least now we're together at least until we separate apart.
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