Uri

Tzvi Hirsch
Jul 21, 2017 · 1 min read

In a shabby Bauhaus flat the floor tiles are dark brown and yellow and some empty frames are on the ground. The street vomits tired people, their cars and motorbikes. It’s rush hour.

From the window, a tree full of green leaves is standing still and the light enters gently in the room like a morning spring sun but it’s actually 7pm.

A cat plays in the neighbor’s balcony and among all of this noises, I can only hear the sound of you.

Your skin is moving like a newborn desert snake. We are laying on a dark gray ’70s sofa and you touch me without touching me.

In the white table in front of us, there are two empty glasses and cheap arak is what’s left inside. The ice already melted and so did I.

While a broken clock is stuck at 3pm, the anice taste goes from my mouth to yours. I close my eyes and I am in a magic garden. Your tongue is like a spring in the Golan and I am just a thirsty deer.

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