After-Life

your alarm clock crashes

on your bedside table.

your father is already awake.

he doesn't tell you

to polish his shoes, today.

your mother doesn't ask you

to hang the clothes

on the terrace, today.

your summer seems misty.

your life, mere moisture

on a mermaid's skin.

you do not remember

the difference between

cicadas and coconuts.

you sieve flour in a plate

and try to mould it

but it seems like a beetle

trapped in a glass jar.

your own heart is no better.

there's sormething

between your palm lines

and you cannot decide whether

it's moss or slime.

it's slippery though, that's sure.

and soft.

like the waves under your head

on that summer beach day,

when you slept

on your brother's built sand ocastle

and felt as if

it were his tears trying

to carry you away.

you try to kill cockroaches

and catch houseflies

with bare hands

but it's in vain.

once the sun climbs downstairs,

you decide you'll crawl

into its lap

and then, up up away.

the rage, that you say

you acquired from your father,

is no more red,

but lavender.

and suddenly it's your favourite colour.

white horses with horns

come your way

and usher you to ride.

but you only want lavender horses,

on lavender lines.

you want lavender waves

patting you for having

done a good job,

for having lived,

loved, grieved, withered

and died.

the lavender calls

you from another world

and you look back

at me

and the colourfulness of life,

when i, finally, let you go.

and you become a seed

to be sowed and cared for,

while sleeping soundly

in your soil house.

your lavender soil house.