the world off your shirt

i won’t wait on you,
but not because i don’t want to:
maybe i would have done on any other day—

that’s not to say that i don’t hate
standing at the train station waving at a departing train.
it’s not me, you understand?
in me there’s always an impulse to chase it.
just water, baby, to chase it. 

just water, a silent drizzle of impending rain:
it’ll wash the world off your shirt—
and i will smell crisp cotton again.

this field

you can have the whole of me in this field:
i pressed my soul into its loins
and beads of sweat still glisten
on the body learning to tango
in the outpour of rain.

i will surrender only here
so take care not to move even a strand of hair
from beneath the tree where i will lay through my whole life,
as if dying prematurely,
for this is home and i forbid you.

a day will come when spring will open me enough
for sun to shine
into the roots of the old cambridge tree
and open up
the rest of me.

—————————————————————-

i’ve been writing this poem for a while now and it feels forever unfinished. maybe that’s just me, always a word out, a syllable in. and then i give up and start something else. at the end of the day, however, i always come back to this. and the oldest tree in cambridge.

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.

68. and this is no more than a parallel

it’s funny, this. i started a post on the 19th of october and never finished it. sometimes i do that. sometimes the words are jumbled in all sorts of ways and i just can’t them to make sense. 
19th of october: viktor’s birthday. i always wrote a story on that day; my form of celebration. but this one went untold.

sometimes i still think about him and wonder if he made me. sometimes i think he did. victor frankenstein created a monster. but that is no more than a parallel.

“consecration.
when you look back to your childhood and remember the way the priest broke the bread during mass, is there not something in it you cherish? the moment of peace, the silence as the bread is broken. for you and me. for us.

i didn’t know you then. you still don’t know me now. but lets plow on – you reap what you sew.”

i remember my thoughts that day. of S and how not too long ago you were him: longing to stand by my side, waiting forever for the imaginary day where i was yours.
and i reminisced on the act of consecration, the way one would when breaking bread and pouring wine. only not of christ. of S.

and that was that.
and this is no more than a parallel.

65. no puns or pokerfaces, just sordid fantasies of everyone involved

i don’t like things when they get too serious. then all the fun is gone and we are left with feelings that are solidified into blocks of ice no burning passion could ever melt. it’s like having too much of a good thing and trembling over it. we don’t need it and there’s no use to being scared of loneliness. it’s everpresent. 
estamos todos solos.

and darling, i don’t want to hear the truth. just laying in your arms, in your pool of warmth, that is enough.
mi corazon, mi corazon
no me digas la verdad.

you say you are fragile. have you seen me falling to pieces like meteorite crashing into the earth’s atmosphere?
you are scared of my abundance. you fell in love with it remeber?
and you tell me not to change, no, you can do whatever you want. i trust you. i don’t doubt it or you but those words of yours replay in my mind and i realise: we’ve both been selfish.

selfish in sharing everything but not enough, in loving too much but sparsely, of showing feeling with ardour but without sparks. we’re guilty, amour. and i know it by the look in your eyes when i mention his name. S. snake in the long green grass.
english boy’s anonimity wavered i don’t care for that pursuit any more. it is dull to talk of him now, but S is good.

we see each other every day.
there is no puns or pokerfaces, just sordid fantasies of everyone involved.