breaking up is never easy i know, but i have to go – the abba song plays on a loop in my head, ringing in my ears.
is it time to call it quits?
count the losses and move on?
i don’t know. we’re just about to move in together. i know, wow! two weeks til we finally land in each other’s pocket. and i’ve been waiting for this. and you don’t care. you can’t even be bothered to buy the plates when i’ve bought all the cutlery, the knives, the pots and pans.
i think back on us and wonder if you ever cared. was there something always niggling in the back there?
three years five months. a long time.
how many girls could you have fucked in that time begs the question. how many more women like the french madame would have offered to suck you off if you’d been single? mind you, it clearly didn’t stop her. approaching you in your lunch break day after day, a preying mantis, with luscious lips and killer eyes (imagination, my darling, is no friend of mine). she’d have seduced you in no time. you said yourself you would have done it, had i not been in the way waiting for you back in london, withering away like a flower in the desert.
for what are all the men in the world if i can’t have you?
a common misconception of women in love.
i wonder if the air is clearer now, when i don’t love you in the same way i did. the heart stops still. it waits for you, as we continue to flitter the best years of our lives on each other.
to the scribble of my pen on paper:
ardent, desperate, hot:
bird caged in barbed wire and wool,
fed ground coffee and coca leaves.
of my other loves:
none as big
none as beautiful, but just as real
between me and sadness,
so that i don’t have to do it myself:
a mediator, a true constant.
you are the paper i write on,
carving words into the thick muscle of heart:
water is thinner than blood.
you are the dream I must have had
before you held me in the night.
you are. you are. you are.
how do we always hear what we want to hear and how do we convince ourselves that somebody’s listening? somewhere out there, listening to us? don’t be ridiculous, honey, ain’t nothin’ we can tell those clever folks down yonder. nothin’ at … Continue reading
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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words are emptiness
full and languid
deftly swept across a chasm.
we break it –
stale stolen bread for communion;
and drown it in white wine painted red,
where flesh merges with blood
and heart is clogged with lumps of fat.
words are just that.
Posted in excerpts
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how vain i should be to reread my own posts, but sometimes, late at night or early in the morning, i find myself scrolling through the past on the computer, mouthing the words or simply caressing them with my eyes. because within me there is something i have not yet understood. an undercurrent of a river lost in my old, unpracticed tongue.
rio de la plata maybe. or river of the sun.
even the sun has sunspots, darker on the background of virginal white; and so i have the blind spots: i always find them when i try. no light is enough to banish the spot of darkess on my sleeve: the drop of blood refusing to wash off in hot water. it would wash off in the cold, i know, but it’ll never get the chance.
chances are far and in between, don’t you know?
and i find myself every time, unexpected, like red peonies on a rose bush in may.
находжу себе кожен раз в шматку чорного хліба.
but what is there to find, other than the poems i had learnt by heart in years three and five. and seven. wordsworth’s daffodils.
the yellow vibrancy of life.
Posted in chapters of my life
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