1:27pm is fresh in here

1:27pm in here
is never-ending inhales
of fresh self,
fresh peonies,
fresh thoughts...
or at least old thoughts
with fresh conclusions.
1:27pm in here
is hoping
that the grass is dry,
hoping that tomorrow
I'll be home
and hope.
Just hope.



1:27 tähendab siin
igavesi värske õhu
sissehingeid,
väskeid pojenge,
värskeid mõtteid...
või vähemalt
vanu mõtteid
uute järjeldustega.
1:27 tähendab siin
lootust,
et muru on saanud kuivaks,
lootust, et homme
olen ma kodus
ja lootust.
Lihtsalt lootust.

Clair de Lune somewhere around 1:27

Midnight sirens
are the most
fragile sounds.
They come in the room
and make you forget
everything
you've learned,
you know
and you love.


Hilisöised sireenid
on kõige
murduvamad helid.
Nad tulevad tuppa
ja panevad sind unustama
kõike,
mida sa õppisid,
mida sa tead
ja mida armastad.

She blossoms

She was everything I ever wanted. But I pushed her away by not believing she's here, by not believing she exists. Yet she does and she's here and she has been waiting so long for me to simply greet her and let her in.
Nourishing my wishes for the big ending dried up her skin, mind and feet. She begun to lose her words, lose her feet and lose her grace. I asked her what's wrong but never listened. She started losing it all even though she had it all. I guess she still has it, she's just too weak to take it all in. To realise where she is, who she is, what she has and what could she do.
Whatever she touches blossoms.
Hopefully it still does.

How do you say "sorry" to yourself?

You at 1:27am

You will never die.
I wrote about you.

At 1:27am with the stillness of the sea.
At 1:27pm next to a stranger in the lunch room.
Inside the number 127 locker.
On top of 127 ferns.
Wrote 127 times.
In 127 ways.

Water my eyes

Water my eyes with joy and sunsets, hold my palms for whatever comes next. We only break when we take a sudden stop now, but if we go fast, we'll make it to the end somehow. The wind is my language and I don't know how to speak, what to say and what words to seek. The moon wanted to kiss my ears so I would learn how to listen what's inside, the sun stroke my skin so I would understand I can't - no more - hide.

Healing at 1:27

If I can't
write anymore
does this mean
I'm healing?


Kui ma ei suuda
rohkem kirjutada,
kas see tähendab,
et paranen?

"Not realising"

I've mastered the art of "not realising".

And then understood

I've been in the 

wrong art department. 

Guess it's time

to switch schools

for life.