small talk

I pick up the phone in the

end

3 hours of spinning in my sheets has made my bed a turbulent ocean
and me a sailor, seasick
shivery

it's a small team

of two on board

your voice on the other side of the line, crisp

like snow early

in the morning after a stormy night

wide awake still and it's 5am
you ask me what the torture is and then you just listen

i have only nothings to say, but i spit them all

as requested

everything is small talk, love.
I know no one here and yet some people seem to know
me; my conversations today:

the custodian at Pendleton - 

"hey, Ms. Bulgaria! do you miss home?"
I freeze

"no. not
really. not anymore"

"how about French music, do you like French music?
Sylvie Vartan was born in Sofia."

then he runs away waving
the mop above his head as if it holds a power
he thinks I am about to steal.
(whenever I ask how he's doing, he never replies.)

then the lady at Clover in the square - she simply refused
to take my money this evening, "you asked if you may have this and I'm saying 

yes, yes you may" her eyes big and warm and bright

and I thought "oh thank god, I only have 11 dollars anyway"

then on the way back
a man on the subway sitting a seat away squeezed my shoulder looked at me and said
"what is it with your culture, men talking to men, women sitting next to women
people need to
love
each other more, touch each other more. there is no connection"
and all i could say was

"this is not

my

culture."


//това го пиша от ноември и вече имам чувството, че никога няма да ми хареса, затова - ето го.