Gardens from the past

 The night is a prideless dark cube,

rubbing the skin on the back of my hand.
Is this me? 
the silence of this flat
might want to say something;
its air sways strangely
and the lights are like human faces.
Sequences of non-obvious noises
flow upward along the window.
Everything and everywhere is quiet;
life has omitted for a few seconds,
if you breathe from the inside out,
you can see the universe from where
there is no space-time,
the expansion seems to be like a blue balloon;
the disappearing light hugs the chimneys
warns me to forget the moments;
which shows how the window totes the Moon's face;
Just be alone;
that peace you waited for never arrives;
my running torch has finished charging,
its light has changed from red to green,
and the radiation enlightens this cage.
Head down.
I rolled to the door and asked for it to open itself
by singing the cheerfullest song I knew.
I smiled at myself while I was sleeping;
A fake wind goes through our hair.
You were there and read a book, and you were glad.
Loved you so much,
I promised you that the lavender in the garden
will survive the winter,
you are alive again,
and when you go into the garden,
you will look like a happy grasshopper.
Everything disappeared.
I stuffed my body completely
into the hungry sleeping bag somewhere
on the cold tiles of the floor, where
my sentences were lost,
those silence did not want to be more
than mutism in my sadness corner,
where the dancing knives wanted to love veins,
and everything was the same tissue.
When it's all over, the silence will clean this room
after bad dreams and the cartoon Sunrise will come soon;
I might be in the now,
or I could be in the yesterday;
it depends on the flow of time;
in my cracked brain.