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.
time without writing is my form of liberation. it’s forgetting, losing oneself in death of silence. and every time i tell myself i shant succumb to the lustre of words, to their shine in the night, i do. and i drive a wedge between us.
one can’t help these things.
i learnt to sleep without turning, only to stay in your arms.
i learnt to entwine my legs around you, to hold you in my eyes; to speak english the way nobody else can, taking you on a magic roundabout with my mouth.
but my breath is free. it swirls like water in a glass; shakes with the weight of the world; breaks in spasms. it parts my lips warm and freezes. it cannot find nourishment in the cold, it loses its essence. like i.
and i cannot give you what i could have given you. or maybe i’m not enough. maybe i never was. only gods know what it is.
tragedy always happens around this time of year. maybe our stars are falling tonight. listen to them thump as they break the surface tension of the ocean. then wait until they surface.
if they ever do.
since before i loved you,
i dreamt of your eyes:
two slices of blue gulf
stripped along the horizon,
with a million years of rain.
i wanted them before i knew you,
only they can penetrate me
with the force of a thousand burning suns.
i can feel them on my lips
through the sound of your breathing.
i love therefore i am.
sometimes i find it tough to show you that you’re the only one that matters in this life. and here you are: here i am.
Posted in excerpts
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a vibrant note of a harpsichord flies in: a coloured bird, a richly feathered parrot. i feel alive; a spark travelling down a strip of litmus paper, exhuberantly coloured, incadescently moving.
such highs and lows of mine, such cirles in the eyes. infinity of life? π?
i hate mathematics, but i refuse to adore a man who does not love its obtuse, precisely measured form. i want a boy with a logical way of thinking, the kind who won’t leave you hanging by a word in the dark. i would rather compose the long silences myself, make them stem from the fullness of my mouth and the soft silk of my thighs.
lately, i have said too much about S. it is enough.
he is too cold, a firefly without the carnal fire. i should like to see him cultivating life.
Posted in chapters of my life
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no response. my heart is the silence of the world sleeping.
i barely wrote about him: he never seemed to matter. you are my prince, patience incarnate. often all i need is that little piece of silent tenderness: i am simple but i change with the northerly wind.
all i seem to do is read and sleep: summer brings deep slumber to my senses and burning sun only makes itself felt on the nape of your neck. when my eyes see it, the gently tanned skin colour of sandalwood, an urge from deep within me wants to cradle it with the palms of my hands, feel its warmth as if through it i shall hold a ray of sunshine, all warm and sensual, taken from a book of mild erotica.
funny how when i felt it last, rejection felt like a consuming fire in every which one of my pores. now, it is a slight breeze tangling up my hair, soft sand in my eyes, thorny roses brushing against a scab: strangely seperate from me.
you think i can’t see the pain in your eyes. true, you hide it well, but i know you and i know that i told you that he mattered in more ways than one would care to. i’m sorry.
S is nothing; i am love.
it’s about aesthetics, feeling, about loving contour and form and not it straight lines … and i got too attached to you, S. funny that, i try to live without feeling.
no response. so we learn to fly.
Posted in chapters of my life
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i could implore you with certainty,
dream on a dream of reality
could be a doll de porcelana
in the whites of your eyes.
i could pretend my uncertainty
was not acerca de ti
but rather a circle you see
in the mud of my eyes.
*de porcelana –made of china / porcelain
*acerca de ti –about you
*podía. si. – i could have. yes.
Posted in Uncategorized
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