Tag Archives: hair

89. so we learn to fly

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.


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.

it sounds romantic

it sounds romantic,
rose petals scattered on a bed, or floor,
you ravish me
or before i ravish you.

y parece me muero
with your fingers running through my hair.
i wouldn’t have it any other way.
si: eso es.


place me in the mirror
of your heart
where love refracts;
oil in puddles,
birthing a rainbow
on the dirty ground.

you tell me oil is denser than water
and talk me of the colour of the sky;
but i am a bird, i just dream of flying.

your head is on my breast:
i’m ruffling your hair like you ruffle my feathers.

physics forget to matter.
gravity is lost.

ride the moon and back

you cushion my falls
like a pillow
of finely ground murano glass,
with the voice of rustling leaves in october
crackling and shimmying underfoot.

your glass is my sand of world’s beaches,
where coloured lights we make break the dark,
warmth engulfing the contours of your body,
nectar flowing freely from the cup. 

so know 

it is for you,
i ride the moon and back,
hair flowing on the rising morning tide;
for all the nights you let me cry in the pillow
made from the ground pieces of your heart.

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.

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.

59. at last!

‘excuse me. can you tell me where the  station is?’

i stop. it’s early, sunday morning, i have four dozen newspapers on my back and then, a change of route. i pause. ‘err- the station? just walk down this road. you’ll see it in 200 meters on errr- that side’. then i look up. the guy’s about my age. i can’t remember his face, just his hair. it was straight, dark brown. and his gaze was so direct.

i heard the mumbling ‘you’re pretty’, gaze seemed unrelentless.
i smiled. how long ago have i heard that from someone? it’s always you’re beautiful from you. you’re so extravagant, my darling, you are!

‘thank you’ came out of my upturned lips, but i felt a nervous jittery feeling. he seemed so lost. could i have helped him? could i have cured the hunger for company eradiating in his eyes? no, i told myself, no.
so i said ‘you’ll find the station alright? just keep walking straight, you’ll see it‘ and i walked away. without long goodbyes, without any sense of pleasure in deprature.

excuse me, excuse me!‘. almost desperate, he was there again, a hundred meters on, in the wrong direction, next to me. ‘do you know the time?‘ i did. it was twenty past seven. gloomy morning.
he didn’t want to leave. he stood there gazing, telling me his friend ‘got beat up‘ and it as a ‘rough night but seeing a pretty girl…‘ and then, ‘can i whisper something into your ear?‘ i wasn’t keen – one never knows a thief. ‘if you must‘.
he saw my reluctant reaction.
so he said it out loud.
the street was empty.
there was noone who would hear.
and yet it was all so real.

i want to suck you out

and it took him so much to say it.
what was it, desire? impulse? lust?

so here i am. muneca brava. at last!