fragments

a night passes with agonies and a body hungry for the warmth of touch
hours spent playing with tears
a tug-o-war of violence
letting go
or
holding onto
decisions often form in the darkness
your soul suffocating
under the heaviness of your wet skin
and when you awake
your skin smells of pain and the relief of the start of a new day.

not dead yet doesnt mean alive
not parted yet doesnt mean belonging together
loving doesnt mean trusting

and you play a piano-concerto on the claviature
frustrated that those lines so perfect (sonnet 40 and yet...)
are not understood by the other
that maybe
there is no 'sintonia'

(sometimes) my soul is out of tune.