To an inspiring friendship with you, F.
Nobody knows me.
For real,
nobody walks
in my shoes,
Nobody else - but you -
remembers my shoeless walking
in the forest, under the black moon
with the howling, silver-eyed baby wolves.
Nobody really knows our self-convictions,
battles we lost on our own,
wishes we burned away, in anger,
none of our whispering, late-night praying
dying unheard.
Nobody is able to tell for certain
the rocking cradle
of our oldest wound,
the most painful conclusion to this date,
the ugliest of all truths
learned the hard way, as always,
written in blood since our early childhood.
Nobody can see our well-hidden tears
defining our past together,
re-shaping the rest of our days;
There's no wonder
Being so blind makes them all unable
to translate our chosen seclusions
into deserved solitudes.
From where I stand,
each of us is simply a bird
whose broken wing, in an ivory tower,
though unable to soar high for a while,
will make a better
bird
with only a little time to rest and to ponder
and a new scar, that wouldn’t allow
taking flying for granted
