Northern Line

Watching him standing, holding is hands while people chat around him.
Then a club, some drinks, people talking nonsenses, a language I was sure to understand. My own weaknesses, the weaknesses I’ve never witnessed.
Did he told him about John? Sexuality. Intimacy. I’m ashamed of watching their bonds falling apart, as they travel by night through the lights of the city I once lived on my skin.
Alone, walking through it, surprised, but outside its own limits, separated by a red line I’ve not decided but real. I come from the other side, from another world, and my dreams of unity are crumbling down as their sophisticated speeches.
Bumper cars, a teenage regression, cotton candy in a transparent sack.
Shout at me, prove my old life that I was wrong.

Then, suddenly, silence.
The illusion of being good enough to understand what you’re talking about.
You were snorting it all, in front of me, wounding my soul like a razor blade on thin silky veil.
Read me your story.
I betrayed you, I fooled myself, spitting the drug right in my throat with your kisses.
Trashed on the sofa as you were throwing our love away, careless of such a violent act of freedom.

Will I ever be confident as you, detached from a thin barrier. His name was Paul.
The morning train, 5.30 a.m. from Euston Station, direction Nottingham.
My name on the seat, the 15th August, it was cold and rainy.
Obsession. Your cage, my freedom. The relativity of our own prisons.
I love you. It’s wrong, it’s disgusting. I love you. I just want to be happy, they want to be happy, two people standing in front of each other. I love you.
Our little projects disappearing in the night.
And I think I will leave.
And I’m free, I’m free, I’m free, at last, I’m free!
Three years ago, happy to be part of the crowd.

I’m free. Free. Cry baby! I’m free.


Informazioni su erikberti

It's frankly hard to describe myself in this little space, but I'll try to do my best: I'm 29, graduated in fashion and design. I love to write tales and novels and to study languages... I love words, their meaning, their importance, the deepest emotions that they can create when they are close to each other, the stories one can tell with words. Yes, stories. I'm obsessed by the infinite number of stories that can be told. This is my personal diary, I will post poetries, writings and streams of consciousness, that will be probably gathered together in a collection. Thank you for following my dream!

Pubblicato il 25/03/2014, in Free Flow, Poesia con tag , , , , . Aggiungi il permalink ai segnalibri. Lascia un commento.


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