Tag Archives: arms

85. cherry soda loves

there was a line in streetcar named desire that i remember. it said it’s touching to notice them making their first discovery of love! As if nobody had ever known it before.  it resonates, for now the time has come for the bud to be broken and flowers to bloom in the late-spring night air.

the risk is nothing. nothing, really. there are only the long sprawling afternoons this side of summer, when paper is scrunched up into tiny little balls and burnt with a magnifying glass or matches. whichever, the result is all that matters. words are nothing: this air requires action! 
and there are trees, so beautiful this time of year. they remind me of walking to school in the summer and inhaling the scent of apple tree blossom with T. those were the days, eh?

but now, no now, those buds will open and blossom will scatter into the hands of a handsome young man that we choose. for me, this sweltering summer, it’ll be you. and, god willing (an expression i borrowed from an altogether more believing friend of mine), next summer also. for T (if we were boys, she’d be a brother from another mother) it will be someone else. Her new beau (a rather lovely Tenessee expression!). her very first. amazing stength and will and beauty.

so here we are, and isn’t it queer to think we shall be here always? in the arms of another, in the throes of spring, the coming summer alighting hopes in every single one of us, as if petards were thrown at the pavement before us, at our feet, at our willing young hearts?

and we can’t help this feeling hopeful. and we can’t pretend we didn’t want this life.
so every year, like clockwork, we will be discoving those cherry soda loves and shedding blossom in each other’s arms.

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84. that will be all

it’s time for answers. or questions. whichever. 
a fellow writer inspired me to think about a few. and they started the clock tick-tocking inside my mind: what did a girl like me want anyhow? what is the dream, the true ideal?

 

1. i’d like a picture of you on my windowsill by my bed: to keep, to hold, to treasure. it will be my reminder that you exist and when i wake up in the middle of the night, wondering if i dreamt up my whole life, i want it there to touch. it’ll be solid in my hands. a relic. and it’ll be in a mosaic picture-frame we’ve yet to buy. in barcelona or in paris (just because i like the way you say it) or in a magic place far away.

2. i’d like to have you on call, running to me whenever i need you there and sometimes just because. you know: for no reason, just because i want to be in your arms where it’s never lonely.  

3. and i want you to have eyes for nobody else but me, following me, stalking me, penetrating me anew with every gaze. i want them to ask me for affirmation of my love every morning and i want them to drown me whole, as if they were not eyes but lagoons of clear-blue water in devon, on hot summer afternoon, when all you want is to immerse yourself whole in water .

4. but more than anything, i’d like to know that this is where you want to be: here with me.

5. that will be all.

71. thank you for the magic

when i was little i wanted to make magic, to pull the rabbit out of the hat and make things disappear before your very eyes. i got little magic kits for bithdays and watched magic shows on tv. i was an avid learner who learnt nothing at all, because now i know the real magic
this is it.
and though it comes rarely, its arrival like a flight of a flock of swallows migrating south where warmth is surer, lustier, this is it. grass is always greener on the other side. bar this one. i’m not moving.

before you fly away, there’s always a rush of events whose sole purpose is to please me into oblivion until you are gone and the empty space forms where you ought to be. only this monday we found our song as we kissed in the middle of it, shakira singing for the crowd in which we were engulfed. that was your birthday present to me: shakira concert the day before the winter soltice.
today, it was your birthday: a small affair of our closest friends and family ties. but morning was ours. so absolutely ours.

magic is the feeling of being utterly in love. it is when you can’t help wondering qué haré si no te vuelvo a ver. it is melting in another’s arms like snow on warm day. it is falling in love and not knowing how to stop. not even wanting to stop.

and every time you go away, i wonder what will i do if i never see you return.

thank you for the magic.

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.

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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?”

28. there always has to be a virus and a host

sleepless night. blurring horizons. stars dancing in front of the eyes.

last night wasn’t good. it was almost entirely awful. a stomach bug my sister had had found its way into my system and was reluctant to leave. a virus no doubt, fighting for its survival and i couldn’t blame it.
bleary-eyed and throughly exhausted, i couldn’t blame it, because we’re all viruses in some respect, finding shreds to cling to, hopes we know will never come true and yet we still long for, impossible dreams, people we don’t love, places we don’t want to stay in.
we cling to the most peculiar things, thoughts, memories just to have something grounding us in this volatile world.  

and so here’s me clinging to you, making you come round my house after you return from a day of hard work, hard study, just so that i can look into the vast expanse of your blue eyes, my hair uncombed, in my bed in my pyjamas, blacking out, hands shaking and still feel wanted right down to my very core.

can i kiss you on your forehead, at least? you ask and i protest, though to be in your arms is what i want, yearn for, almost need.
i don’t want to infect you.
i don’t want you to feel like i’m feeling right now because that would make things so much more difficult, don’t you understand?

there always has to be a virus and a host.

18. his arrogance will be the death of us

the weekend sweeps me off my feet like you never could.
still, you do it better than X.
he’s been on my mind persistently for the last few days. not because i miss him: no, i’m glad we don’t see each other much. but rather because his presumtion of his own greatness is driving me insane. take for example yesterday – just to prove his superiority over the poor old me, he went and asked all his friends whether they thought he was better than me.
i think you can guess the result.

but, hey, for some reason i didn’t care.
it didn’t upset me at all, but it did make me wonder why he was doing all that. is that his way of trying to retain me in his arms? i don’t think he realises that i never was in his arms and god forbid i ever will be.
he is my project first and my boyfriend second.
not even a close second at that.   

that may sound ruthless, but believe me, it ain’t so. i’m only trying to help him, prepare him for the future. at the beginning i thought we could work, but then he disappointed and i thought i’d be a clever idea to try to “improve” him.
just for the hell of it.
i always wanted to “improve” someone – make them appreciate the arts more, motivate them to study harder, show them what it’s like to see perfection so close up, but i realise now that this process requires you to genuinely care for the person and now i’m not sure whether i care any more.

his arrogance will be the death of us.

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“The demand to be loved is the greatest of all arrogant presumptions.” – Friedrich Nietzsche