The world is beautiful
with its splendor of all kinds of green and the chirping of black-robed blackbirds groping about, and sun and moderately cool air, and inconspicious pedestrians, meek traffickers of tobacco and booze. After we make love she must get pretty again, while I prepare dinner, we have it with candles and strings that sing us into a warm and mild night. Other times we go to the theatre, opera, concert, café, end up in bars and into her dreams I tell her the night. What I have to offer to her is stolen from books she could read herself if so inclined. How, I think, can anyone stand the boredom of life undrunk? She bites my ear, but for how long can she play this game? Along my voice reading her novels she glides over posh and fine accents into dreamlands I hummed to her. And when she awakes again and again, she expects from her lover to tell her, the world is a beautiful place.
That’s easy for me, as easy as clouds rain down and bees fill their honeycombs and inside warm smiles I nakedly linger into our days. We feed us new life and do not fear death but rather what will make us die. I hurt her, she hurts me, we do not abandon each other. Together we stay until cosmic symmetries break up and make the world whole. As if we as lovers never existed, your smell on my linen sails away into and out to this beautiful world
Copyright the author writing as Serge Gurkski