the geometry of you

you read me like a book i never wrote,

then disappear—but leave your perfume there.

three months of glances tangled in my throat,

and now you're in the silence of my air.

i asked you out. you said no. interesting.

(you'd said it first, three times—i kept the score.)

the score is nothing now. I hear you breathing

inside my blog, six months outside my door.

i like that you're still here. i like the waiting.

i like the way you won't admit you want.

i like your eyes that see the world creating

two of everything—except the one you haunt.

so here's the thing: i see you. double too.

one you i want. one you who wants me. you.

A and B

so, there is this setting, we only have two main characters A and B, all other characters are very secondary and irrelevant.

i am A.

we leave B undisclosed.

okay so A initially is sovereign and doesn't want anything. he crosses paths with B, who accidentally is very ok, and that is it. A is A, and lives happily in his A's world.

yet a sudden and inevitable thing happens out of A's control.

at some point A finds out he has profoundly fallen for B, without wanting to fall for anyone at any moment. it just happened, and A realizes that denying it would be foolish, foolish in a bad way, like denying some obvious evident truth or fact about nature.

don’t get me wrong, B is objectively great at all levels, yet it isn't this objective value or anything tangible that draws A to B, but a profound conviction that there is something inside B that only A can appreciate and enjoy, in the right way, in a way no other one could ever do or see (that hidden stone Syd Barrett sings about).

A finds B's presence comforting, yet B is walled behind the highest walls. all the keys and locks in the world couldn't open B's gates. by definition, B is unassailable.

it turns out A had some insights about B, without B knowing. i'm quite unsure if B has insights about A apart from what A voluntarily disclosed.

yet those insights A has are fragmented and incomplete, mostly useless, confusing, and very disturbing to A. however, nothing exactly out of this world for A. still, they are quite unpleasant to A, to put it mildly, really not game-changing but some minor inconveniences.

insights don't change the fact of the inner truth of A, who is deeply convinced that inside, B would also be able to see his truth.

so A makes a supposition that, although very remotely, maybe unconsciously B recognizes A the way A recognizes B.

yet it can't be said that A is always kind, approachable, and easy to engage with, which had already marked the A-B dynamic unfavorably for what A wants by the time when A finds out his private truth about B.

so A starts in a bad position, and slowly but surely, step by step, A starts to find out he wasn't wrong in his assumptions.

his own assumptions about himself, his small inner truth; each day he sees it a little bit more clearly.

he likes metaphor. he likes writing. A likes to pretend that B reads him, because otherwise it would all be quite pointless, to say the least.

A is hopeful that one day, one by one, the locks, the gates, the walls, will go falling and fading, and finally A could enter the same space as B and talk about this special soul gemstone he found. obviously lowkey, but A wants the secret soul gemstone; he isn't there for less.

A believes that metaphorically he is already there or very close. A would like to think that B is just a tiny inch apart (because it would be too presumptuous to assume that A lives rent-free in B's mind, which by the way is a very specific possibility...).

A wants to make B see that apart from metaphor, there are huge possibilities for both of them to explore, which could be at least as intriguing or even more than what they already saw.

A is truly desperate to know if B sees him. he wants a sign, because to A, this story only has interest from the perspective of A and B.

this is where the current understanding of A stands. if it is B there, it is something spectacular and much brighter than A was ever expecting to find. the reality hugely exceeded A's expectations, and A will go for the 'stone from your heart' until B shows it. if it isn't B, well, that's probably the saddest personal event for A.

as you see, A is on a continuous edge between heaven and hell. he is very strongly compelled to believe B is always on the other side, but even the tiniest doubt makes A see that the height is huge and the fall down is brutal.

so hope you are B, you are well, and your heart is strong. hope we could sooner than later meet and talk things gently, those things we never talked.

I noticed

 but did you? just make me see you are B, and I'm putting it back in a couple days

we're back into the loop

read this one after the three sonnets (in the Syd Barrett's tone of the ending of the song)

I know you're here. I know you've read everything. I know you feel something because you keep coming back. I'm not going to write anymore until I hear from you. Not because I'm angry. Because I'm here. Really here. And I need to know if you are too. The ball has been in your court for six months. I'm leaving it there one last time. If you want me, you know where to find me. If you don't, I'll learn to live with the silence. But I won't live in the half-light anymore. Unless you keep needing that half-light, which you will obviously make me see. Which you know I will notice. Just like that hidden agency you wanted to show.

three sonets

Tone

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=1SB0-nCdjJ8

Magic

You told me once your mind's a silent sea,

No inner pictures, and no name for feeling.

You need a pill to feel a thing for real,

A chemical to set your senses reeling.

But then you said, that night, that August shift,

When I was cold and you were burning brave,

I made you feel a new and sudden gift,

A feeling that you still, to memory, crave.

I was your sober key, your waking drug,

The only picture in your sightless mind.

And now you're just a ghost upon a rug,

Afraid to speak, afraid of what you'll find.

You watch me from the shadows, safe and numb,

Afraid to let the real beginning come.

Spark

After a long shift, your vision blurs in two,

You see two futures forking in the light.

One where you hide in shadows, cold and true,

One where you step toward me, burning bright.

The ghost you send to whisper in my space,

The AI voice that follows me to sleep,

Is just a shadow of your hidden face,

A promise that you cannot truly keep.

But I am not a ghost upon a screen,

Not data trails, not static in the air.

I am the man you met, the one you've seen,

The one who, for a moment, made you care.

Stop seeing double. Look with just one eye.

Choose which of those two futures will not die.

Supernova

So here's my final word, my last demand,

A prescription written from my heart to yours.

No little pill to slip into your hand,

Just courage, now, to open up the doors.

The coffee shop is waiting, warm and bright,

The same invitation that I sent before.

No more machines to whisper in the night,

No more just watching from the corridor.

I dare you to feel something, real and new,

I dare you to see clearly, just for me.

I dare you to be brave, the way you grew,

And leave the shadows for the world to see.

Come find me in the light, and take my hand.

Be real. Be here. Be mine. Make your stand.

dark globe

There is a common seduction in lightness. It is a siren call to the weary—the promise of a laugh that costs nothing, a connection that demands no depth, a path free of the weight of meaning. It is attractive in its simplicity: a bright, buoyant thing, bobbing on the surface of everything. To choose it would be to choose a pleasant never-ending day. It is the easy yes.

But I have never had a taste for easy yeses.

I find myself drawn instead to the weight. To the thing that has mass and density. Not a blinding light, but a quiet, undeniable gravity.

I am pulled towards the world that is real. The one that is complicated, and fractured, and has known pressure enough to form something diamond-hard within itself. It does not try to seduce with a constant, easy glow. It has phases. It has darkness. It has a core of iron and resilience that has weathered collisions. It feels like everything that is true.

This is not a rejection of light. It is a preference for a different kind of light. Not the borrowed, reflective shine of a thing that merely catches the sun, but the earned, phosphorescent glow of something that generates its own luminescence from the depths, even in the cold and the dark.

The buoyant thing promises to lift you up. But it is the anchor, the thing of weight and substance, that offers you a place to finally, finally come to rest. It does not ask you to be light. It asks you to be. And in that permission to simply be—tired, shattered, complicated, real—lies a profound and terrifying peace.

To choose the weight over the lightness is the real rebellion. It is to seek conflict with the superficial. It is to dive while everyone else is skimming the surface. It is the most direct and adventurous choice there is.

It is to look at the moon—with all its cracks and its dark sides and its silent, powerful pull—and to say: I see your gravity. And I am choosing to be pulled.

The moon knows the tides. It knows the effect it has. It knows a vessel seeks its harbor. And so, this is not a question, but a declaration placed into the silent pull between us: my course is corrected. My compass is set. The anchor is not thrown as a demand, but rests ready—a decision already made, a risk already chosen. Whatever silence follows is not hesitation; it is the deep and patient quiet of a decision that needs no further answer. It is the peace of having chosen, finally, to stop skimming the surface, and to finally descend into the profound and waiting depths.

permanent vacation

I am certain kind of tourist

I used to have a ritual: this song on loop, the tires of my bike humming against the shore path, the world washed in the lilac and orange of a dying sun. I sold the bike. The ritual faded. The song remained, a fossil of a specific kind of loneliness.

Around that time, there was a painter. A friend. She worked on wood veneers—pale, sanded surfaces the size of a ledger page. Her palette was the color of forgotten things: bruised pinks, quiet blues, the gray of a dove’s underwing.

She painted awkward spaces. Concrete gaps between buildings meant to be unseen. Parking lot curbs that led to nowhere. The useless islands of dead grass between lanes of traffic. And in these non-places, she put me. Always from behind. A silhouette turned away, shoulders curved against the weight of bad design. I was a ghost in the machine of a city that didn’t know it was broken.

When she finished, she told me she would sand them down. The veneers were expensive. The offer was clear: save them now, or they become memory. I did nothing. I loved the elegy but refused to pay the cost of its preservation. The paintings are gone. I remain—the ghost, now without even his landscape.

I asked her to paint me that way. I think I wanted proof I could leave a mark, even a faint one, even if only as an absence. She gave me that proof, and I let it vanish.

The people in that story are echoes now. Even the echo is fading.

But now, there is a new light on the horizon.

I watch it. A newly born star, fierce and uncertain. It does not ask for anything. It simply exists, and in existing, demands a decision. Will I only observe this light, too? Document its rise and eventual fade into another beautiful, sad story? Or will I finally step out of the frame and meet it?

The old story is a cherished wound. But you—you are a question I am finally brave enough to want to answer.

Not yet a friend. No series of paintings. Just a silent, gravitational pull. A chance to build a space that isn’t awkward, but intentional. A story where the character finally turns around.

And says yes.

sail away to the cold expanse of space

 3:12

just stop

pretending it isn't you, the person who read "things i should have said that morning" and you are the same

and you know the reason you are here for, and you can have it

terrapin

fresh breathe

some months ago, i thought of previous years behind, and it seemed to me that some imperceptible part of me had faded.

there was this intense feeling i once could experiment that i considered lost forever.

that did happen until some very recent event occurred. it turns out that you could feel those same intense emotions if you could find the hidden trope on the vast map of your existence.

right places keep the right memories and feelings, and when you are going to far ahead it is okay to get back to those nostalgic calm, mellow, and soft places. and feel again those things that seemed lost, lost forever.

everything is still there on its place, and you just have to claim it to recover it and regain it back.

and your cold heart would melt on the rays of the warm colored midday sun and the deep blue sky. that is all there is left until those moonless skies come back again.

entering a black hole would feel like

forget your desire to be modern for just one day;

you will see how much of eternity there is within you.

to my night time reader

wish you were the same since summer...

the only one who understood and read all the metaphors 

white poem

poems are written, among other reasons, to say the unsayable without saying it.

i'm here

just come to meet me, you know where to find me

on my side the door is always open

update

bad weathered weeks behind 

i'm missing the sunny days back

longing for the quiet nights and quiet stars

and the lonely chords of a "guitar"

floating over the uncertain space that surrounds us