Tag Archives: forever

87. my two plus two

we change. why do we do that? tell me truthfully and without needless words.
i spoke to you in a language you did not understand, in hope that your eyes would tell me what your lips couldn’t. in the end, your hands spoke, holding my flesh as if it were a vessel brimming with the very water of life.

i wonder how and why we have come to this river where the past merges with the future and washes over the present. more importantly, how did i leave Y behind with all his unread letters; and how did you find me amongst all the other grains of sand?

i’ve listened to too many sad songs, heard too many excuses and i spoke to Y on friday. 
completion.
he came out with a gem when i told him that really, i had never lied to him, never told him i’ll be yours forever. he told me that he never lied either. a lie is something that is said with the intention of deceit. clever boy. pah!
i stick to my two plus two: all my past hurt equals you. and i’m thankful.

and between the lapses in translation i’m convinced that nothing matters but me and you and your hands. they will find me all over again.

Advertisements

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.

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.

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?”

61. see if i float

maybe i’m not the girl i thought i was. everyone i love along my way tells me so.

today was one of those days. i blurted out i’m in love with you and, cue the lights, i think i meant it.
it took me by surprise. i never said those words before. to me, they were more foreign than our first kiss, for yes, i loved, but loving is easy. apart from the times when it’s hard.

in love is more than love. it’s a choice. 

and it might have been the postcoital slur or a byproduct of nights where sleep is a distant dream undreamt, but i don’t think it was.
so tell me, why is it so difficult to believe that i have found peace at last?
maybe because i’m not so sure i have. when i called my best friend today and told her of the incident, all i heard on the other end of the line were shocked squeals and laughing congratulations.
she told me she was happy for me. she also said she didn’t expect it in a million years.
and i realised i’ve lived two lives all along. one – where i dream of convention and the other, the free, liberated me, – the one with which i face the world.

but words are words. did i mean it and then, what does it mean? are we forever is this the end or the beginning or the pause?
who knows.
i’m tired of being scared. drag me into the deep end. see if i float.

acetone

it balances out. it always does.
some call it karma. we call it god.
no ifs. no buts. no forevers.
just stop and listen to our song.
yes, any song.
can you hear my voice resonate?
you should know i wouldn’t run to hate
if love’s all i’ve ever known
and this life i’ve sewn
is mine to splash acetone on.
no one will stop me.
no one knows how.

—————————————–

it was such a momentous day today. for the first time ever i touched the heights those older and wiser often talk about. seventh heaven, where flesh trembles, leaving eyes in a haze.
but something had to ruin it all. and maybe you can fight against the darkness, but in any case, you didn’t. they win. 
no matter: i don’t need them.
just the memory of today is enough.

and the irony isn’t lost on me.
6 months since my goodbye to X.
well done to me.

51. sometimes

the world has a tendency to hit you all at once.
it leaves no time for pauses or breaks; no time for slow lives or lifeless existences.
this world you and i live in leaves us all only enough time for a sharp intake of breath before the tidal wave crashes.

but no matter the amount of sea-water in my nostrils, no matter the drenched clothes sticking to my paling torso or the panicky moment of blindness, when the eyes sting from the harsh impact, i always emerge victorious.

sometimes think it’s because of viktor.
his name could never be changed. there is no letter in the english alphabet with which to replace it. maybe there is one in the ukrainian but that’s of no matter – no anonymity will mask his identity.
he was my first love.
no, he was an obsession.
love is something beyond that, below that, above that. he was no more than a motive, a mute name to dedicate my life to. a pause in the middle of every sentence, a stubborn glitter in the eye. you know of him. everyone always does. his name is forever embedded on my lips, like an infected tattoo.

and upon those lips, he stands victorious. for as much as his victory is on my lips, my victory is on his shoulders. i’m not scared of tornados now, nor of broken hearts. i’m not scared of storms, nor of ruptured heart strings.

he showed me that a heart can shatter without a single word and i could tell you that syllables never uttered hit harder than any word ever could, but that would be hypocrisy and i can be no hypocrite for in him is the mirage of my own bravery. 

but ask me why it matters that the tuesday past one more admirer of my flawed mirror-glass started sweeping up the pieces of his fractured self. ask me and i will tell you, for that is one thing viktor will never know.  

sometimes you must let love flow through your fingers, like molten chocolate, its slowly solidifying mass sweetsmelling on your fingers.
sometimes you must let it go, ridding your soul of the little titbits that should no longer matter – the creased used tickets from journeys long past, the old postcards from people lost somewhere in translation, the newspaper articles cut-out badly with blunt scissors stored in a soiled envelope somewhere.

yes, that sometimes is inevitable, but for me it never comes.