If on the subway my hand accidentally touched yours
on that merciless ride every evening back
to my cold bachelor apartment
perhaps you would look for my shy eyes
hidden under the cap
and think :
Is this the man who empties a pocket of silence into my
a few times every day?
In the crowded train
nobody would notice me caressing a strand of your hair
that insolently smells of my pillow.
Nobody but you.
Perhaps for a moment you would think
that the world is full of lonely people
including the one
who has been sending unsigned Christmas cards
If I leaned on you tenderly
in that packed train full of tired or sleepy people
perhaps you would feel the fire in my skin
and wish to warm yourself one stop longer
on the shoulder of the shy weirdo
whose warmth reminds you of something
you have forgotten,
The world is full of cold people with north in their bosoms
who fear touch might melt their ice.
I could have touched your hand if you hadn't got off
at the stop where you never get off.
I only needed a moment to show you
alive in my pocket all these years.
The same one I found in my bed
so long ago
before you forgot me.
But who knows if you would recognize it at all?
You would think:
The world is full of lonely people
and lost earrings.
This is a poem that I used to memory by heart, that used to inspire my sadness, my poetry and shaded margins of my nights. I feel the obsession lurking within me, and I can almost hear the speaker's voice continue his thoughts within me.