i knew for a long while that the summer was over and now it really is. i only vaguely remember the way it began: pavements covered in blossom, lounging in the field under the stars, watching sun setting above our heads.
there was majorca.
there, in the evening, i scoured every shop for a memento to give to you. i found a wooden statue, obscurely sexual, sensuous, expressive: two figures entwined in an embrace, their sleek polished bodies holding each other. the male form bent round the female: side view of him, the woman – face on.
you didn’t like it very much and i can’t say i blame you: you had enough trouble reading a spy in the house of love. of all her men, the only one you remember is allan: the one she married, the father figure in her life. what of the others?
———- a blank.
can’t say i agree.
i had a dream of the english boy night before last: his birthday party conjured itself in a palace. i was with you of course. then, somehow i was speaking to him. back to you, fawning over the flowers Y’s girl had. and then a girl attendant handed me a huge box of those very flowers. scribbled on the box was “i love you”. from him.
still, those are only dreams. and i don’t mind that.
Posted in chapters of my life
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he did not recieve the text. good. so we chat. friends, not lovers, that we are: i question him of things and he shares his good news with me. at midnight. not that i didn’t ask him to, but he doesn’t bother informing you. funny?
relieved, i don’t think of the saved blushes and the heat does not rise to my cheeks: it doesn’t need to.
a sigh escapes like a fly through the open window, its wings no longer beating against the cold clear pane of glass.
phone on, i wait to hear a beep. from you or him, it hardly seems to matter.
i sleep lightly as of late, or as of early. since our trio of sleepover nights, it’s been better, but sometimes, i will wake up in the night and think you are with me, curled up on the floor.
no longer an insomniac, i don’t know how to classify myself. i want a tidy name to sum it all up. there isn’t one.
i’m on the edge right now and it’s nothing to do with the pair of you. my future lies within these very moments, encapsulated in the smell of old books and pheromones surging.
i call the number. it is busy. so i call again.
right now, all i care about is that the phone is picked up and they listen to me, if even for a while.
i heard a no. loud and clear, like a dead weight going into cold blue-black water.
deep, guttural sounds of a storm brewing. but the storm is already over. we lay on the deck and count the stars.
Posted in chapters of my life
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I glisten like humidity on windows
of brazen memories of not so long ago
and you look through that glass into the night,
presence of my ghost lingering behind
as moonlight shines and stars above you shimmer
I continue to simmer.
this is a poem from so long i don’t care to remember. it was a scribble on a notepad some solitary evening. about Y, of course. i dedicated few poems to X. it was Y that i loved.
and now, here we are: Y has just gotten engaged. the status flashed up as the first notification on my facebook homepage. c’est la vie and i don’t regret it. so long the finger isn’t mine, he can put all the rings on it he wants.
i don’t need a cage, just love, like nectar, flowing freely.
so give me love!
Posted in excerpts
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went to bed at eight last night. woke up at five. felt like i needed that, considering i wake up at five every day without fail – the papers won’t deliver themselves.
i don’t know why i set out to deliver papers in the first place. maybe it was the money, but then again, the money’s bad – half of what a paper-round just about anywhere else would earn you. maybe it was the lack of things to do, but i leave home at quarter past seven most days and return gone five. in the end, i figured it must have been the structure, the routine. the getting up at the same time, the getting dressed, the shower upon the return, the rushed breakfast, the badly-made sandwiches thrown hastily into the bag, the mad scramble for the rail ticket (sometimes made worse by realisation that i had forgotten to purchase it the day before) and then the sigh of relief at getting to the station on time and catching that train.
but routines aren’t the same on sundays.
i woke up early today. yes, dearest, i recieved your text upon waking up. even replied to it at five thirty, still in bed, typing furiously, using up so many of my available messages. acknowledged your apologies (but for what were you to apologise for? that missed phonecall? the fact that you went out to see a play? my dear, that is nothing to be apologetic for!). read the messages from X and Z (how queer it is that you all texted me within the hour last night, when i was already sleeping) and decided to keep them waiting for a little while.
in any case, i had to rush off to do the papers.
and then not thirty minutes ago now, you replied to my early morning text – a lovingly-crafted text, so sublimely rich in adoration and yet not clingy in the least. the statement hope you’re not missing me juxtaposed with although i am missing you . you know, it’s almost as if you were wooing me. if i didn’t know better, i’d think you were. but i do.
and i know that you’ll love me in silence.
you’ll love me without asking for love back.
i’ll reply to that text in the evening or maybe in the afternoon. for now, i’ll keep you waiting.
Posted in chapters of my life
Tagged dream, evening, girl, hope, literature, love, my life, paper-round, questions, routine, text, thoughts, x, z