I know that I am not a poet, I'm not good with words, and my thoughts are quite messy.
I know that my dreams are obscure and my heart beats too fast.
I know that our conversations are trivial, I don't impress you, and you certainly don't care about me.
But I really don't know how much longer I can stare at the corners of your mouth before I simply go mad.
I don't know why you have that scar on your arm.
I don't know where you're going or where you've been.
I don't know why you walk away.
I really don't know you at all.
Tell me about your passions and what you love and hate.
Tell me what you regret and what is your favorite time of the day.
Tell me about your parents. Tell me about your home.
Tell me all the things that have made you into this luminous, lustrous mystery.
I want to get to know you so I can justify this feeling that I already have.
I could write a never-ending novel
with the thoughts that I've knotted up
and placed in the deepest, dustiest corners of my mind.
And this is what happens:
I sit restlessly on a train
heading from one foreign place to another.
People coming, people going,
people laughing, people loving.
And all at once, I start to come undone.