Anton Chekhov didn’t want to write stories.
They were just the aftermath of subliminal chaos.
A master of ‘nastroeniye’;
Not believing in words
When they described the profound sadness of
Nina and Irina,
But in the emptiness of her gaze
That crept between the syllables,
Just like Chekhov,
I learn and unlearn
The possibilities of this not being a story;
But a long, overdue reaction
To everything that makes me.
And after a cigarette or two,
I am only certain that
I am nothing but a feeling;
Living a little less,
A little more.