you missed the soup

you missed the soup
 you missed its colour
 you missed its scent
 you missed the soup
 you missed its
you missed it.
taste.
you missed it.
yes.
 you really did.
 you, unfaithful bastard
missed my soup I made. for you.
don't get lyrical woman.
don't throw with cheese.
do you even care if I make you a soup or not?
do you?
the beaver returned from its ephemeral  re
tirement
 on the sixth day
after the apo
calyps
es
.
 and the sky was purple and the
it will all end soon.
raspberries were blue
our walls will be broken and our veils will be lifted
smiling faces
evaporating in a vacuumised
silence of
the lambs
prayer and laughter
and
is a film I've never seen
unicorns
and you.
you.
because you were there.
it was always you in the back of the room
because you always were there.
there, crushing saxophones
it was always you whose eyes I was searching for
or drawing
in the darkness of my stockings
on the back of my take home exams
over my head, after I tried robbing the bank
but they confiscated my gun.
after we had tea
and gave it back to you.
and again it was you
in the sugar
 you, you, you.
in the light, brown water
all over the place
in the yeast
and the sugar was salt
in the bread
and wine turned back into water
in the vitamins
and the fish started walking
on the seventh day
after
the apocalyps
es
and the bike finally broke
 .
no woman
the bike got stolen.
finally.
as predicted on the 321st day
before
the
apocalyps
es
.
no woman or man will walk there ever again
or here, neither
limping or not
no no
it had been taken away
no no no no no
far to the east
oh no
oh no
oh
i could drown you with my tears
and i would do so if
 you
were here
but you can't swim
but you are not
and therefore
I
spank
you.
(mentally)
as you like it
on the bike, right where we left it unfinished the last time
in the quadrant of the ionic columns
but you don't love me after all
silent in the mediterranean breeze
rising their heads to an elegic sky
filled with melancholy
satisfied
but not
after all the sandwiches we've ever had and all those take-away coffees, late night shows and allergies we developed
it will not work.
sandwich
sandwich
sandwich
is a miraculous invention
oh, where are you, my sandwich
the sandwhich
the sandwich got pierced
pierced
by multiple forks
and teeth
and tattooed
by multiple needles
and dirty finger prints
dirty
because nowadays
because of you
the dictionaries are brown
those, who used to be candid
in
the past
brown as my morning coffee
the days
with no milk in it
brown as your balzams
and brown as the drugs my mom gave to me
 which one
of
the
onehundredthousand
in the drawer
 yes
i know
the drawer
where you keep them
but does it matter in the end?
no it does not matter in the end
if you will leave me anyway?
that day
when you will find out
that
the drawer is
empty
that day
yes
then it will matter
but only that day
if we never experience our wedding under the willow tree?
I'm a mess, I know
but thou shalst cry no more
 when i strike my vengeance upon thee
 and I will never learn to play ukulele
because it is
freaking hard
to play
the ukelele
even with three hands
and my fingers.. they are too old.
they are heavy
 since they have borne the years
the years that were
did you just call me fucking fat?
they years to come
oh i am afraid i did
(shall we finish our poem?)
but it was not meant to be
(yes let's do so. this is a nice meta-intervention)
no it was not meant to be.
it was not meant to.
it was not meant.
it was not.
it was never.
it was not.
oh no.
no.
 .
it was.