Cristina Dascalu

again
it is like a playing with my instincts: dangerously falling down
climbing the peaks of emotion
keeping my breath while immersing in the afternoon sleep
i’m silently sailing on the ridge of this moment
let it be i teach myself the lessons of detachment
it is like cutting bread with my left hand
i am right-handed it is like watching
tragedies while eating pop corn
then i disperse myself in his hemoglobin
how romantic bizarre you’ll say
while going to bed it’s cool
blind birds following your dreams
i think i may have lost my memory
i think i may have lost MySelf.

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