Monthly Archives: August 2010

acetone

it balances out. it always does.
some call it karma. we call it god.
no ifs. no buts. no forevers.
just stop and listen to our song.
yes, any song.
can you hear my voice resonate?
you should know i wouldn’t run to hate
if love’s all i’ve ever known
and this life i’ve sewn
is mine to splash acetone on.
no one will stop me.
no one knows how.

—————————————–

it was such a momentous day today. for the first time ever i touched the heights those older and wiser often talk about. seventh heaven, where flesh trembles, leaving eyes in a haze.
but something had to ruin it all. and maybe you can fight against the darkness, but in any case, you didn’t. they win. 
no matter: i don’t need them.
just the memory of today is enough.

and the irony isn’t lost on me.
6 months since my goodbye to X.
well done to me.

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57. somewhere in between the truth and dare and spin the bottle

what made me think it was a good idea? 
i think i must chase pain for its little thrills. there’s just no other explanation.

you’re not as fussed, though i’m not sure you know how much i love you. the problem’s me. again. and i can’t stop my churning gut from heaving.
fear is not a strong enough word to describe this violent smashing of glass inside.
i’m in a daze, a momentary lapse where all thought is illusion.

i pounded the streets by myself this morning. thank god for all his little offerings. i feel lighter now, somehow.
and i saw the sunrise today, but looking at the oranges and pinks merge, i felt sick. i barely slept: five hours of restless turning, waking and then falling into a half-conscious state, where dreams merge with reality.

and all because we went to your friends little gathering yesterday.
your ex was there.
it was all so last minute, i’m sure it was her that convinced him to invite us. she had it all planned, no doubt.
we had WKD and pringles and your friend’s mum’s wine and somewhere in between the truth and dare and spin the bottle all mixed into one, i kissed your ex. and so did you. and then you both laid on my bosom. my harem.

it was all jokey and fun and whatnot else, but it’s not how i approach my relationships. it’s not how i roll. and what if this pulls us apart? you felt guilty kissing her, you said. i didn’t. it was all so absurd i almost couldn’t believe it was true.
but it happened.

and we left just before clock stroke midnight, because i guess there’s a cinderella lost in me, and you held me tight a few steps away from the house and kissed me fevereshly. adrenaline of fear had washed our bodies: we could have kissed all night.

and i don’t regret any of it.
so why do i feel so broken inside?

56. something about them reminds me of almonds

so much to do, so little time.
and yet, there’s always time to feel. there must be, else what do we life for? not this sense of helpless continuity, surely? 

so i run out of the house to take in the exhaust fumes of the passing cars, i slam the door and run to see you again. as if i hadn’t seen you yesterday.
your kiss reeks of aftershave, just like i want it to. you know. that’s why you drench yourself in it. for me.
and i hold your hand in mine. your skin has tanned over the summer. mine hasn’t. not with this rain. and we are no longer the same shade. 
and do you remember how amazed you were at the way the pigments of your skin mirrored those of mine? when the tan washes away, the skin on our hands will be the same colour again. that on our bodies still is. 
and i look at your nails. it’s merely an impulse. yes, they are imperfect but you no longer bite them. i put a stop to that.
something about them reminds me of almonds.

we walked the streets and read the paper. daily telegraph. in the library where we had our first kiss. friday the fifth of february. twenty-nine fridays ago.

obesity's pushing NHS over the edge.
tiger woods' ex wife got his millions.
the "mistresses" was not a hit for all.

the headlines were predictable, but with you by my side i oohhed and aahhed.
with you the world’s a different place.

but i’ve come back home now and there’s so much to do, so little time.

all your loves

you are made of all your loves
like i am made of freshly mowed grass
scented candles
early morning dew

the passion in me
is the hope in you 

the dreams i dream
are nightmares you can’t place

 but

every time i see your face
i fall in love anew

not with sharp symmetry
but with the love in you

————————————————-

the world won’t ever stop because we want it to. love doesn’t metamorphose just because its broken. we are left with all the pieces. and the smell of freshly mowed grass.

how do you love me?

55. and you wasn’t here and he was

once this was my safe haven.
that changed, like everything changes, life swirling us all about in a glass of rosé or champagne, or cheap white wine, if you’d rather.
and i notice that i’ve become agreeable, but no more than that. i’m still all here, all me.

and then on tuesday the rainbow of my life seemed to have been broken up into the component colours and merged together, forming black.
is black a colour? i don’t know. all i know is, i couldn’t possibly write on tuesday or wednesday. or yesterday even. but with time comes acceptance. so here i am now, accepting my failed anonymity.

Y has read my diary, this. every word, or most, violated with his eyes.
and i asked him not to.
i asked everyone close to me not to read it. everyone complied. but him.

i didn’t send a link. i didn’t tell him the name i assumed or the posts i’ve written. i merely read him a poem.
the last poem i had written here, trace of us.
i didn’t read it so he would find me. i never thought he would.
i read it because i felt like i needed to read it to someone and you wasn’t here. i read it because it was about him.

next thing i know, or rather remember, someone, and it could have been anyone but something tells me it was him, typed trace and put the cork essence of us blog into google.

he found me. 

he was the only person i read that poem to. the only one. and it can’t have possibly been anyone else. 
the search was done less than an hour after i read him the poem.

and though i didn’t start the blog for him or X or you even, i thought of deleting it or not writing any more.
but in the end, i haven’t started this blog for him so what if he reads it?

i haven’t started this blog for him and he won’t be the reason i end it.

54. blinking daylights

certain things hit me with a strange ferocity. different velocity, acceleration, speed, but they are have one thing in common -somehow they wound me gently, taking care not to hurt too much or break more bones than will heal naturally given time and care.

it’s often words. soft, sometimes inaudible, but always taboo.

like the wednesday past, when i met your past love and she told me of the things you and her did, the way your breathing would take on an animalistic quality, as if the lion i know in you was roused, the way your face would contort at the end of it all, the way it made her laugh.
and then there was the way she asked about what we have done. and i told her. why wouldn’t i? let the vulture take its prey and feast on it. we all need nourishment of some kind and i guess my nourishment was hearing it all out in the open. everything has it’s price and well, she’s only me in retrospect.

those little things are enough to drive us insane, but i think we ought to face them head-on. that way we are the hunters and not the hunted.

and then there was this morning and a text from you telling of your time in france and how, by chance, you ended up sleeping only meters away from your parents and their squeaky bed last night and the night before.
and i don’t want to fill in the gaps.
my parents wouldn’t.

but we are all different, non? my morals are not yours. my horror is different to yours. ukrainian normality does not always collide with the french, i know that. you laid there in silence, but me, i’d get up and go to the bathroom, garden, i’d go out.

and suppose that’s us in twenty or thirty years time. does it scare you? it scares the blinking daylights out of me.

but what do i know of fear?
maybe i ought to go to war.

so here’s my rebuttal: we do not see things as they are, we see things as we are.

trace of us

we’ll stop tonight
where lights carry a trace of us
and moon shines loftily on bare skin

if only to say goodbye 

we’ll lay in the long grass
just like you wanted
no questions asked
no answers given
and put the cork into the essence of us

although,
it may still feel unfinished somehow
still raw
still paling
in the sunshine of your blackest sun, 

maybe then, under the searching light,
i’ll stop hearing your goodbyes
knowing
you’re listening for my hellos 

a year too late

———————————————–

and there are moments in our lives that lay imprinted behind our eyelids, fluttering with every heartbeat, waiting to escape.
this is one. 
of stars was another.

but…
different people. different lives.

i know. 
circles never end.