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,
And stayed.
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,
And then,
A little more.