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.

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.

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.

60. wrap threads of red silk around me

we, too, had gotten it all wrong more than once in our lives. we ran from desire instead of running towards it. disbelieved what mathematical induction could not prove, but what remains quite true: every pain, in every measure, can be counter-balanced by pleasure.

and i, the jagged tremor in your heart, the slight pause in your groan, am weak, for how many times i have surrendered to the illusion of lust?
but i shall find an excuse worth loving, a sentence worth of praise.

i am a woman. 
no, a girl.
but more than that, i cannot feel complete unless i am a pool, half-full, passion rising to the surface, black oil floating on translucent water. 

my heart is a pool collecting rivulets of desire in its basin, each drop – the sacred elixir of life. yes, i’ve changed. i used to say why be a man’s wife if you can be his mistress and now i’d rather say nothing at all.
now, i love you and you alone, but –

always a but-

i need the scarlet light to fall upon my form, if only to show off the violent carmine of my bullfighter’s cape.

my whole life is contained in the balance of virginal white and the shade of moonlight casting its fragile rays on lovers in the night. those colours merge to form my blood.
scarlet like the summer bloom of red roses, half-concealed by the shadows of rising sun.

and as i yearn for the chains of desire, wrap threads of red silk around me, dream me up sordid dreams.
i love you as you are, even if sometimes that’s not how it seems.

49. and to think i used to call him mine

if he ever tried to retrace his steps, Y would still be here. there’s only so many lives a man can lead. whilst i lived out my three, not quite a cat but near enough the slinky nine, he could barely grasp onto one.

so here we are again. and he won’t admit that he was wrong to have jilted me at my elusive altar and though i’m not bitter, i still think it should have been me to have waved the first goodbye. i was never the taker for seconds.
now we speak for barely more than seconds.

and we had a conversation today. somehow i manipulated minutes out of him when he claimed to have none. and he wants me to call on a weekend. and he listened to my poetry of loving women and war poets. it’s been a while. but i’ll let him live his life. that one life he holds onto like a raft in a burly sea.
those sort of lives were never meant for me: i like mine long and luscious, like sweltering summer days.

and when i read him my lines, he stopped talking altogether, pondering, wondering, what it was that i meant, knowing it concerned him but not knowing how.

and to think i used to call him mine.