Public Republic

Dimitar Ganev

Photo: LauraLewis23

And it was February (I remember), the cold
outside was too close for me,
the walls of the night could not take me
and in their angles I found the dust
from my own collapse and I
put it under the carpet. I was trying
to live with myself, the cold and the walls,
and with the glass, on whose edge
the mark of your lipstick was turning pale,
just like me,
and on its bottom
I was settling
slowly – I,
your unfinished yesterday’s tea,
I am growing cool for the chill,
for the walls,
as I did before
in so many other
glasses.