today is splashing,
in my head.
the world a puddle,
i turn to you instead:
your stolid torso
solid in my hands.
[breathe for relief]
to the tip of the tongue:
spices pungent with plans,
simmering with the pink
of young girls’ dreams.
i dream in yellow.
hands refuse to let go off your waist.
tighter. tighter. i can almost breathe you in.
and then release.
we fall asleep like that.
sharp crimson of longing
spreads its tenticles
through the mileage of capillaries,
deep into soft skin on the nape of the neck;
makes itself felt in the first flush,
then – the second,
before electicity echoes painfully in the gaps
between the fingers.
she slips from his hands.
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
Tagged about, aethetics, against, all, are, attached, barely, book, breeze, brings, brushing, burning, but, can't, care, change, colour, consuming, contour, cradle, deep, erotica, every, eyes, feel, feeling, felt, fire, fly, form, from, funny, gently, got, hair, hands, heart, hide, him, hold, how, incarnate, it, itself, know, last, learn, like, lines, little, live, love, loving, makes, matter, me, mild, more, my, nape, neck, need, never, no, northerly, not, nothing, now, of, often, one, only, pain, palms, patience, piece, pores, prince, prose, ray, read, rejection, response, roses, s, sand, sandalwood, scab, see, seem, seemed, sense, sensual, seperate, shall, silence, silent, simple, skin, sleep, sleeping, slight, slumber, soft, sorry, straight, strangely, summer, sun, sunshine, taken, tangling, tanned, tenderness, that, think, thorny, through, to, told, too, true, try, urge, wants, warm, warmth, ways, we, well, were, when, which, wind, with, within, without, world, would, wrote, you, your
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.
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.
Posted in chapters of my life
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yes, i remember
the blue sky with no horizon,
the trampled road we trod though
one april morning following another.
and the time was not stopping
but starting anew:
in me and in you,
even in those black eyes and hands
which longed for the other on these marshes.
we feared no ending: it would not come; not to us
who knew of life lived simply,
of lukewarm soup and truth before bedtime.
yes, i remember
and it will be alright.
Posted in excerpts
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it’s time for answers. or questions. whichever.
a fellow writer inspired me to think about a few. and they started the clock tick-tocking inside my mind: what did a girl like me want anyhow? what is the dream, the true ideal?
1. i’d like a picture of you on my windowsill by my bed: to keep, to hold, to treasure. it will be my reminder that you exist and when i wake up in the middle of the night, wondering if i dreamt up my whole life, i want it there to touch. it’ll be solid in my hands. a relic. and it’ll be in a mosaic picture-frame we’ve yet to buy. in barcelona or in paris (just because i like the way you say it) or in a magic place far away.
2. i’d like to have you on call, running to me whenever i need you there and sometimes just because. you know: for no reason, just because i want to be in your arms where it’s never lonely.
3. and i want you to have eyes for nobody else but me, following me, stalking me, penetrating me anew with every gaze. i want them to ask me for affirmation of my love every morning and i want them to drown me whole, as if they were not eyes but lagoons of clear-blue water in devon, on hot summer afternoon, when all you want is to immerse yourself whole in water .
4. but more than anything, i’d like to know that this is where you want to be: here with me.
5. that will be all.
Posted in chapters of my life
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