88. soon, soon

yes, you are right, i should like to hide my head in the sand and pretend all that darkness is nothing but light shining through a filter tinted the colour of night. i should pretend last night never happened, i should pretend i am content here by your side in the leafy undergrowth of life where all i see are roots uprooted, dying in the sun. and would you blame me?

i could not sleep last night, thinking of the shining lights enveloping you, pillow over my head to drown out hurt. i wondered if i ought to watch a film, but that would be defeat. no, i would lay here and count your wrongs, my wrongs, the cracks in the ceiling of our hearts, thoughts, lives.
soon, soon, the artery would rupture and drown out the pain.
soon, soon.

i knew i couldn’t cut myself. what with? a knife? i could almost hear you saying don’t be silly in that tone of yours. and pills, what good would it do? only that i may die without salvation, without the knowledge of how to cling to love by the skin of your fingertips. or maybe i know that already.

and i can’t live with all that poison, not even just for tonight. i would fight but my limbs have gone to sleep and i am faced with a picture of you in the club, music pounding, drinks flowing, girls dancing.
and i realise i can’t say that there is anything missing. there is not.

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.

67. just alive

how is it that i still haven’t learnt to recieve compliments? years gone by and i’m still the ugly duckling waiting to become the swan. i’m told i’m there, but how can i believe my luck? nobody’s born lucky enough to have it all.

on friday we were at the first party either of us have been to in ages.
it was a success.
my nude dress, hair let loose on the wind and glittering stilettos, yes i was there. and you couldn’t stop staring. i had a ball: i danced and danced all night. jamming. grinding. skanking. crude is better than not at all. and it was a hit. i danced with guys and girls alike. 
i danced with you too, but that was more intimate, more reserved.

an hour before midnight, not even tipsy, i sat by your side, drinking. i was not exhaused, just alive. and a boy approached us. almost everyone there knew we were together.
he didn’t. he told me you look goregeous and you’re the hottest girl at the party and smiling politely i froze inside.

me?
gorgeous? … me?

he continued: i suppose this is your boyfriend? i retorted yes, without hesitation. YES. and then, i asked him to dance. he was awkward, kept saying you’d probably be better at dancing than him. i told him he danced well. then one of your friends came and talked to me. the boy slid away.

at the end of the night i saw him again. i said a few polite comments about the night and then, as i saw a vaquishing look in his eyes, we were gone.
i – the cinderella, you – my prince.

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.

45. almost a tragedy, Shakespearean

dig up the past just to hold its skull in my palm, like hamlet, and exclaim alas poor, Yorick ( or X or Y )… here hung those lips that i have kissed i know not how oft. where be your jibes now?

and that’s exactly what i do. defiant proclamation of my freedom when others rot in dim despair. i rise above them like a phoenix. though dead’s my past love, i’m yet alive to love you.

.

speaking to X today was almost a tragedy, Shakespearean, or else a Chekhov masterpiece of irony and loss. 
his unhappiness at life, unjustified, seemed clearer, more logical, than my reasoned joy. he has that girl, you may remember? call her S1, for lack of better name. and yet, as i predicted, he needs that push she’s not providing; he wants a mother or else – a friend. but there she is, a girl he has to love back too. that too was never his.

and tragedy or none, he lost all i left him with, those shards of glass my heart had flaked upon his recieving palm. i used them to change him, but they are gone.
snowflakes have melted from the heat. 
and he daren’t say it, but romance to him is dead, and hope vanishes at night, like a fleeting memory of me. and i just wish he’d love her more.

i’m not writing any lyrics for her
i realised they mean nothing

if that is love, then we are lost. lost souls where silence is the only truth. and yet, my love, that doesn’t scare me. my only fixation is that skull, it’s pearly mass so solid in my hands.

alas, poor Yorick.
alas, poor X.