102. life leaves a sip

i shook and sobbed in the chilly evening air. it was cold and i’d forgotten my coat at nottingham. but there we were, a gloomy 8 o’clock in london and i was wearing a light black jacket for the sixth day in a row. i hadn’t seen you all day; i was angry at you for making my choices; i was sick with fear and hurt and trepidation.

every time is easier, that’s why it gets harder, because after a while you can imagine yourself leaving.
you misunderstood me. you reassured me that you won’t leave. that’s not what i meant. it was i that thought of leaving you. or maybe you’d understood me after all;
maybe you were shaking inside too.

tomorrow it’s our two years. on good friday.
in the evening, we’ll go to see the dutchess of malfi; in the morning, i will wake up and pray.
the irony of it all is unbeguiling. the tragedy of tragedies on our special day. i found the tickets at a dicount and i bought them. maybe i jinxed it. and maybe not.

i find that life leaves a sip for a thirsty man almost as often as it doesn’t; and so everything is left to chance. for good or bad. in sickness and in health, a dice man moment.

and i reckon we need one sometimes. tonight, tomorrow. maybe now?
a six or a one?

your life is blistered…

your life is blistered
by the setting sun
and dreams we dreamt
as if we were living
for one life only

the jokes we told
today: the ironies of life,
the laughs we laughed
callused by bitter strangeness 

adieu
to you
is but a foreign language
to me it’s broken glow stick lighting up the sky

 i’ll say goodbye
but not in english

i’ll say goodbye
and it will be forever new.

————————————————–

last weekend i was away with friends. trekking. miles walked under the coldness of october sun with you, with Y and others. according to Y it is over a year since he began life anew with his blonde. i know it isn’t. the day he professes their anniversary is the day i spent crying in his arms. it was the day when i almost begged him for a platonic kiss. it was the day he said “how can it be platonic if we are in love?”

58. siren

our fifth month together and all i’ve given you for our anniversary is a revelation of my secret admirer and some of the passion in me. 
my english boy. the english boy. 

have i told you i always searched for that blonde, blue-eyed and tall perfection?
you’re not blonde and he’s not tall. but it’s you that got me sussed.

if this was a myth, you’d  be poseidon reigning me in and he’d be a young soldier, soft features made of marzipan. i, i would be a siren, luring with words and laughter, light touch of my fingers on his a cheek, my toes dipping through the waters of your realm. 
so now you know. 

and he’s got a girlfriend : clever, but not as clever as me; irresistible but easy. and i’m not. well, not the latter.
so hand me his head on a platter.
i’ll serve him up a game that he can’t win.

i just wish you didn’t know.
his anonimity was something sacred, special. one song i left unsung. so i’ll confuse you, make you doubt all i’ve told you. one can never be too safe in grips of love. and my love for you has spilled over the bank. a scarlet flood.

still, i will be a spy in the house of love.
but as a siren.
and both of you will see me and breathe me in. now that you know each other, you will do so together.
and S will join you.

three’s company, two is none.

20. i’m no mad doll, just a run-of-the-mill one

yesterday marked five months since the day i became X’s girlfriend.
on paper at least.
and it’s kind of scary in some strange way how long that is. for me, in any case.

it was just like any other day.
we didn’t even speak on the phone: he didn’t call and i had other people to speak to. i may be dependent, but i’m a free woman, or rather girl, still. and the funny thing is, i don’t think he even realised how frustrated and trapped i was feeling until this morning, when i decided that our anniversary (or in the very least, the day following it) ought to go out with a bang.

i had a perfect excuse, not that i really needed one, but hey. he was meeting up with a girl who blatantly likes him, behind my back. and when i say likes him, i mean likes him a lot.

she never told me that she did, but it’s evident. not just to me, to others too, and you know that. you were the one who suggested it in the first place. 
she talks about him, like he’s her boyfriend and not mine. and that’s alright. i don’t mind.

in fact, generally, i’d welcome such turn of events, ignore it or maybe gossip about it for a bit, but today i felt like drama. and not just any drama, but a argintinian-style melodrama, where every nuance is outrageous, where shock is everything and truth is nothing.

and that’s what i always wanted my life to be like, ever since i watched “Wild Angel”, or rather “Muñeca Brava”. i wanted to transform into that fearless heroine, that mad doll who’d always get what she wanted, no matter the cost. who actually knew what she wanted. who knew how to live.

but i realise i’m no mad doll, just a run-of-the-mill one, trying to be unique. still, what does it matter?
for a moment in my life, albeit a fairly brief one, i thought it counted who you were, but it doesn’t really. what matters is how well you can pretend you’re something you’re not. and i do that well.
a million different smiles, looks, mannerisms.

and so we fought. bitter words. silent anger coursing through viens. his. mine. 
but i know before the night falls, he’ll want to be in my arms again and i resent that fact. 

i resent resenting him and resenting me.
but that’s the way it’s gonna be.