Saturday, 23:30, Budapest

I'd cry. Budapest.
7 months of nothing.
7 months of my life.
Somewhere in my heart.
Somehow it hurts.
It's beauty (in hungarian style maybe)
Corvin cinema passage,
more broken again.
Prater street boys, not Paul's.
And the cafe, yes, now tears are coming.
Intimately known turnings.
Every step familiar
until that corner from where I see.
Serhat is home?

Michelle is not. She parties with Marta.
Too late to go.
Too late.

And the mattress:
We've made love here.
I've cried so many times.

Millions of small pieces.
Broken mirror, not the simple puzzle.

And the fish is hanging from
the lamp, more colorful than
ever.

Budapest. You old, secret lady.
You don't let one to get close
easily. But you take hearts.
Fully.