I took a break from love
to possibly think of you
to write something about the dead
I mean about the dead man inside of me who rises
with our first kiss.
the dead man inside of me once
so dead and now
so alive.

I took a break from life to write about death
about the death appearing on my face when I am alone
and I watch myself in the light of the cigarette embers
in the dark glitter of the drink within the glass
and I do not recognize myself, I do not recognize myself
like the dressed do not know the naked anymore.

I took a break from love
to think of you
this is like that moment when you put
the gun barrel against your temple and
inside your head the thoughts cut through just as the bullets do.
now I can write about the dead
now I can write about myself, now I can stop
pretending.

I love you, but I take a break form love so you can see me
as I am without love:
dead and bleak
like a pair of initials written in the cement.
like a deserted playground
where only the wind and the rain
are still playing.

a soft, fluorescent bed which reads
your cravings like a mentalist,
a bed in which love has never been made.

I take a break form love so I can share
my darkest thoughts about death.
everything is for sale
I only write so I can pay my rent
I always get bad news
life is a sexually transmitted disease
I live in bucharest and not like woody allen
the last time I was inside of a woman
was when I visited the statue of liberty

I am not even sad or nostalgic
I am not even the same as all the dead
I haven`t got that odd light, or that mysterious smile
which appears on the faces of the dead or those in love
only those who receive love
for love.

not me, I just
took a break from love so you can admire my death
like a bizarre color, much too bizarre
for a bedroom.