There is no space for music here

I invite her in

But she doesn’t stay for long

Our conversations were always so big

And this place is so small.

 

This is no place for art

I call

And I write her letters

But she stopped answering.

 

There is no place for dance.

 

I meet with poetry every few weeks/

Months

But she looks at me strangely

Like she doesn’t recognise me anymore

Our conversations feel forced.

 

I miss film 

Sometimes

We drifted apart

And I don’t understand him like I did before

I sit and I wonder about him.

 

I keep in touch with photography 

But he is friends with everybody 

It’s not like it used to be with us:

Our long walks where we would dissect each other and everything.

 

There is no place for sculpture here

But her and I were never close.

 

This is no place for prose.