i become undone

i become undone,
with your touch on my neck,
collarbone yielding
to mesh into
the essence of you.

let down the guard,
feel arteries dilate,
take this one chance
and
i will fall
- like always -
into the boiling pot of us
without
noticing the pain.

114. i can tell you know

i’ve changed so much under your guidance, but one thing has remained the same – give me a challenge, a living breathing red-blooded challenge, and i will take it.
veni, vidi, vici.
like yesterday.

a stranger fell in love, yesterday.
you could see it, the way he gathered the smiles and attentions as if they were diamonds falling from the sky – before anyone else could see them to steal them.

it was worth it, you know, the month of not eating, the lonely walks and hunger pangs, when you were dans la France. i, again, get the reaction i used to be so accustomed to: the sleek appreciation of men. for beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but as a rule, these days, less is more. and you should know, a woman needs no cambridge degree to attract a man with it in his possession. we can safely learn from history that the meek and mild do inherit the earth, just as the bible says.
sharp tongue cuts nothing but your chances of success.

not quite sure why, but i rather liked him. call me crazy, but i think it was his degree. his singing wasn’t bad either, but i’m not the sort to fall for that.
he’s not you, granted, but times like there, my inner hunter wakes from slumber. rich, clever, funny: why not make the most of the spoils?

no, i don’t mean that.

i can tell you know.

113. you would have done it

breaking up is never easy i know, but i have to go – the abba song plays on a loop in my head, ringing in my ears.
is it time to call it quits?
count the losses and move on?
i don’t know. we’re just about to move in together. i know, wow! two weeks til we finally land in each other’s pocket. and i’ve been waiting for this. and you don’t care. you can’t even be bothered to buy the plates when i’ve bought all the cutlery, the knives, the pots and pans.
i think back on us and wonder if you ever cared. was there something always niggling in the back there?

three years five months. a long time.
how many girls could you have fucked in that time begs the question. how many more women like the french madame would have offered to suck you off if you’d been single? mind you, it clearly didn’t stop her. approaching you in your lunch break day after day, a preying mantis, with luscious lips and killer eyes (imagination, my darling, is no friend of mine). she’d have seduced you in no time. you said yourself you would have done it, had i not been in the way waiting for you back in london, withering away like a flower in the desert.

for what are all the men in the world if i can’t have you?
a common misconception of women in love.
i wonder if the air is clearer now, when i don’t love you in the same way i did. the heart stops still. it waits for you, as we continue to flitter the best years of our lives on each other.

the earth drips with moisture

i breathe you out
the way i breathed you in:
musky, silent, imperceptibly sweet,
mingled with rain,
your veins carrying raindrops
straight from the sky
into the heart.

i cup my hands,
pool the torrential outpour in them,
arms outstretched
to the god of thunder
and his throne on olympus;
and i imagine
you cupping my breasts.

the hands feel warm and soft,
tropical islands in the sea of desire,
holding me in the near-darkness.
the earth drips with moisture
and i drink the rainwater
as an offering
to love.

the scream

i shout.
the pitch
above human hearing:
sharp piercing sound – a blade -
slitting time
and life
and space
inside me.

then,
lips come together,
in a brusque motion.
the slurmp of collision
runs through the body
and the rest is silence.

beneath the bones,
the scream solidifies
in the darkness of the soul.

you are.

you listen
to the scribble of my pen on paper:
ardent, desperate, hot:
bird caged in barbed wire and wool,
fed ground coffee and coca leaves.

you listen
of my other loves:
none as big
none as beautiful, but just as real

and flitter
between me and sadness,
so that i don’t have to do it myself:
a mediator, a true constant.

you are the paper i write on,
carving words into the thick muscle of heart:
water is thinner than blood.

you are the dream I must have had
before you held me in the night.

you are. you are. you are.

112. if i would be this happy

so your brother is going to cambridge. we went over there with congratulations: chocolates and a card, as you do, because i’m proud of him. though not as proud as i am of you. you deserve something like that so much more and i think we both know that.

looking back now, do you remember the day we were waiting for our results to appear on the screen of the computer? the tears and awfulness of that day? the sitting on the grass in the field near your house, later, the weather lukewarm, sun popping in and out of the clouds? because i remember. you got your grades but i didn’t. one mark away from getting into the right university, one mark away from solidifying myself away from you.
i knew then that something wanted us to be together – who knows what would have happened if i went somewhere else? knowing me, you would be a memory. knowing you, you’d hate me for that.

how poignant it all is, looking back. but i don’t regret a thing. whatever will be will be and all that was makes us who we are now. i sit here now, wrapped in a towel, readying myself for an evening out with you (tenessee williams’ “sweet bird of youth” at the old vic), and wonder if i would be this happy had something else occurred?
what if i’d got the grades, what if you didn’t, what if some force of nature ripped the fabric of us?

and i wonder, if we knew the future if we’d have done it all again.