You were taming feelings and drawing sketches of a face under

the lights of Prague. Cataloguing secrets in different bars, lips

pressed with fiction of humming bees. You were potentially

explosive full of sorry’s that were too hard to believe. Why?

Is it that people thought each poem of mine was about someone

else, but you really knew what it was about. How could have you

thought of anything else than your own life. A white-collar criminal.

You were probably doing more bad than good. It was far beyond

midnight, losing your phone, sending telegrams to someone you

don’t belong to anymore. Dropping your two straight eyes in Vitava

River drowning two vultures. Trembling ghost lights in the Dancing

House’s windows where you sat and had dinner. Minicomputers in

your nowhere miles, all crumble into the slower dying trees and

mountains. In a panoramic ocean mind the ship-like tears floating

beneath your no-cries. The sunsets always turn black, how many

endless-ends will you be deceived by. You were the best con, you

could’ve conned anyone. Especially me.

Poetry by Vanessa Matic