Still in this room

I’m half here.

Half I’m in a different room,

holding glass with old wine in my hand,

while watching you.

I’m wearing that red rose dress,

you bought from boutiques of Paris, 

a town we’ve left behind.

Parts of us still making love

in that four stars hotel,

with blue advert above a famous,

crowded boulevard.

Against all odds, some other pieces are, still here,

still in this room.

Large wooden windows

with cold views

to lake and forests.

And eastern winds

still love

to play through our hair and kiss

our skin.

This eastern sky,

who knows us both from other lives…

We lived, we died,

we met and fight or only shared 

a room, once in a while,

thoughts, words and this old wine.