Thirteen wide-eyed dolls
suspired August at last...

The night is skintight and my tongue is dry
because of missing words and closed lips...

Winds
chiming...

Arose from the sea, grew amid the foam - a maiden
yet unseen, each of her curves spelled...

Whenever you nestle up against
your coffee cup and undress me...

I realized, that poetry
is not my mother-tongue...

Enveloped with mist;
Illuminative moon rays...

At the end you will be asked
whether it was worth it...

You always said,
that painted fingernails...

In artifical light
you rip, advisedly...

You surrendered -
on a day that did not...

Last night you gleamed red
as if few hearts bled to death...