think of home for me, will you? hear the kettle boiling in the background, lone wolf howling in the night; the crockery clattering like crickets chirping; the steaming mug of coffee turning whiter still with every drop of milk.
remember the beige carpets, the perilous stairs, the strange creaking under floorboards: my parents’ house. or nobody’s house. a piece of rented haven.
but it was home. and d’you remember the first time we made out on the sofa in the living room downstairs? the day after i turned single and we couldn’t wait much longer? the irony of that day was not lost on me. how could it be? the impact on the window smashing is not forgotten by the frame: the memory is always there – gentle pulpitations in the soft grooves of the wood.
you see, beginnings shape the world.
quietly, carefully, they smooth the edges, polish outer surfaces, let us glean a little of the inside. they are a little mirror straight into the lover’s heart, a sphere held between the middle finger and the thumb, a kite.
it’s the beginning that lets me know where home is: with my hands on your neck; with your head on my lap.
had i taken my art seriously, i would have been a different person. i would have made everything from scratch: from scabs and paper, empty cans; empty windows, empty lives and baskets full of nothing but dew and pegs. i’d hang it all right there – on the … Continue reading
we could eat oysters
under the moonlit sky
and nothing would change
except, perhaps, the taste in your mouth.
how many calls have you missed
¿y cuandos calles anduve contigo
como si estuve solo?
your touch would have been enough
if it weren’t for the look in your eyes.
and i guess that’s just it.
that’s just fine.
one day i will cry the mud out of mine.
today is splashing,
in my head.
the world a puddle,
i turn to you instead:
your stolid torso
solid in my hands.
[breathe for relief]
to the tip of the tongue:
spices pungent with plans,
simmering with the pink
of young girls’ dreams.
i dream in yellow.
hands refuse to let go off your waist.
tighter. tighter. i can almost breathe you in.
and then release.
we fall asleep like that.
every year, a rebirth. that’s how we should be. no realism, only rose tinted glasses and steely determination: next year will be the year!
and since tomorrow never comes, those will be the fireworks, those will be the days!
every morning, neurons collide and i surface with a new approach to life. that’s how i am. and non, mon amour, i don’t wanna help it, ‘cos sometimes i’ll wake up forgetting and sometimes i’ll wake up regretting, imploding with memories in black and white. i like the uncertainty of it all. how little of the world really matters and how much a little thing can mean.
sometimes i can’t find the words to fill my mouth. that’s where you come in.
met Y today. what had we left to say to each other? so much it seems. and i remember nothing. well, almost. we spoke for hours, walking. and he hasn’t really changed much. i’m still that girl inside a split cell in my brain. every hug with him is like the last hug and i think that’s what made me sad. but why? nothing matters when i’m in your arms, i know that much.
hold me tight and let me kiss you.
you are life.
for how many lives i’ve pushed myself into to leave a mark somewhere, to scrape a line in the sand? and it’ll be gone tomorrow, but all that matters is today. so all i say is, let the wind blow: tomorrow never comes, it’s but a distant friend.