For Joasia as she leaves for elsewhere.

There must be some other form of expression
Or another mode of action available,
If my problem hinges on humor.

I mean: can I really make you laugh?
I can make myself laugh, but
You only laugh at me and
It's a bit of a dream to assume
That you laughed with me,
Whenever there's company around.

I guess laughing together is like holding hands
But what I say is the kind of hefty nonsense
That presses hard on your fingers
The pressure and weight
I should really dispense
Like a bad cold.
I'm sick of my throat sore
With the sticky and dry feeling in my mouth and
The dry muck collecting around my blood shot eyes.

In the end, I make you sick with silliness.

"There's nothing funny about the way I look"
You say with that motherly glare,
And the way your mouth opens slightly,
As your head arches upwards, looking divine
While I feel so small, disgraced,
Wishing I can hold your hand,
Make you laugh.

Often there are dreams of train stations where I wait
And you arrive,
Even though you don't laugh with me, and at least in my sleep,
I see you smile.

Each late afternoon I wake up,
With the hope that I can think of a joke.
So I call you to come over, to tell you what I've uncovered,
But as I come near the punch line,
The set-up was far too long, I lose your attention.

The air is still. The silent grows,
As your maternal condescension
Brings me back to place.

Each time you look away,
You seem to say: "Boy, you really need to grow up".

I return back to the solitude of introspection: I open a book.
I change the subject, and we gossip about the people we know.

Then I go home in twilight
My hopes impotently hanging between my legs,
While my chest adjusts to the pain,
Which through time and misfortune,
I have gotten used to.

So before bed I drink and with each sip I think
How my nights usually end with a prayer
That the next morning would be different:
That for all time to come
You will laugh until your stomach hurts,
And your cheeks will ache from smiling too much.

But alas! These are only words.
Imaginary notes written in the morning
With the aspiring wish that my dreams
Be sweeter than the bitter wine of everyday life.