Apologia

The remnants of your smile,

Contorted like the grimace of a grasshopper
being squeezed between fingers,

If reality is pieced together, you won't be there anymore.
This evening, you had a bad dream
and came to the kitchen where I live,
you seeking comfort;
your face was titanium white
as you stood in the dark doorway.
Your fear fragmented
and teleported into my mouth,
and I unwittingly swallowed it.
The unusual pills contain our bad dreams
as their active ingredient to suppress egoism.
I require these fictitious treatments.

The repeated desire for a life with you
has left me naked in this room.
Crying in secret may seem immature,
but it is often necessary for salvation.

The rain's sound is a monotonous rhythm,
with the clouds as giant drummers,
beating and licking the rooftops.

Their lips are large and grey, devoid of teeth.

My half-sleeping body listens to them;
A small cloud shaped like a weasel sits between
the enormous wolf-shaped clouds,
appearing just as isolated as everyone would be
without the capability of self-denial.
Can we feel others' pain? 
Evolution has committed some tricks on us.
We can identify facial changes,
sense the fragrance of others,
and recognize when someone is sweating.
That's all. No telekinesis or mind-reading.
I am listening to an ambulance siren's song
resembling a hawk's screech,

possibly emanating from Margit boulevard.
It blended with the wind and resembled a scream.
I do not know how we would survive if we lost everything.
Millions are in the same shoes.
Our lives are not exceptional in this present-day dystopia.

We should avoid being like those pathetic people

who want to reign or hurt others.

To be without volition is not possible.
But reducing it could work.
That your eyes told me so.
Five years ago,
in that room at Munro House in London,
our love burned into time,
and it still resonates through the walls of Waterloo Station.
Are we still there?
Can you see how I hugged you when you arrived?
No, you can't anymore. 

This isn't an apocalyptic or tragic thing;
it's just a rainy day.

If we wake up, we'll smile
and talk good-naturedly.
As usual, I will be depressed
but don't want you to notice it,
as talking about it would be unpleasant.
I feel weak and aimless.

We need to act like working machines
to construct a new building.

I would be a tiny backhoe,
and you could be an excellent excavator.
But, unfortunately, I can't do this now.

I apologize; I am vulnerable and prone to mistakes.

I tend to be quiet and dislike dishonesty.
I know that some individuals may claim that morality
is comparable to the dog poop
in the favoured comedy of evil.

That's fine. I've become accustomed to this.

In this human-made netherworld,
being modest and reserved seems foolish.

I long to be weak for a lifetime,
not just a moment.

It's almost April and until my birthday,
all the trees will finish leafing and shine in green,
everything is like your eyes, dear.