Give me a typewriter and some black coffee to complement it.
Make it drizzle outside my bedroom window and let vapors of caffeine flirt with my head.
Allow me to ponder, as I wipe away the drops of first rain from the window pane.
It will take some time, some giving-up and then some pulling-myself-up again to begin.
But the blend of rains and coffee shall suffice; it shall be enough to bribe my heart.
To spark the thousands of tiny street lamps in the corners of my brain.
And then I will write, I will put you into words, I will cage you into a stanza and I’ll only give you the keys to the egress.
I will write you into something that will carve your heart out of its rib cage and place it onto your hand and ask you what to do with it.
Dead poets will listen stealthily to my plans from behind the bookshelves.
They’ll stand witness to you tearing me apart with those stares and to me fucking your brains out with lyrical armaments.
Take off the clothes of sanity; my hands are itching to write, to send shivers down your spine.
Allow me to slide my hands into your hair while it drips off dew shining along their edges.
The beam of sun punches holes into the blinds and illuminates your wet neckline.
The slow fuck escapes your lips as you watch me and read yourself.
Love might take another form but the smell of first rain remains the same.
Melancholy to your sighs and reminiscent of your breath.
Teach me how to inhale this world and exhale it as art once again.