What has this city done to me?
I sit
the air is cold, but breathable
the wind has not yet come.
I force a coffee down my throat
and one thin cigarette…
“So… are you having fun?”
you asked me, 3 weeks ago at nine,
it was the last time that we spoke.
Apologies, I didn’t have a lot of time
I count it by the cigarettes I smoke.
Yesterday, for instance, I had approximately 20
approximately 20 time — I’m sorry that I didn’t call you
I just didn’t want to talk… I wanted to cry.
I count the time I have, also, by the litres of beer
that make a little ocean in my belly
the more I drink, the less I fear.
And I have to fear little, if I want to catch some sleep
I have to wake at eight, you see, to try and get a seat.
The earlier I wake, the more exceptional the city looks,
the mountain in the middle of it is drawn straight from a book,
at first I climbed it for the sight
then for the view
and then to clear my cough
and then, one last time, to throw myself off.
I didn’t, in the end, it was too much too late,
with seven deadlines facing me already
I didn’t need an eighth.
So, I went back to moping
to writing essays and drinking beers
to forcing coffee down my throat
at unreasonable hours
to choking down my tears.
Last night when I came home
and looked into the mirror,
I thought that I would find
a face that, although thinner,
would look at least similar to mine
but what stared back upon me
was just a hollow shape
and I’ve done, badly, many times
but this one took the cake.
