a vibrant note of a harpsichord flies in: a coloured bird, a richly feathered parrot. i feel alive; a spark travelling down a strip of litmus paper, exhuberantly coloured, incadescently moving.
such highs and lows of mine, such cirles in the eyes. infinity of life? π?
i hate mathematics, but i refuse to adore a man who does not love its obtuse, precisely measured form. i want a boy with a logical way of thinking, the kind who won’t leave you hanging by a word in the dark. i would rather compose the long silences myself, make them stem from the fullness of my mouth and the soft silk of my thighs.
lately, i have said too much about S. it is enough.
he is too cold, a firefly without the carnal fire. i should like to see him cultivating life.
Posted in chapters of my life
Tagged about, adore, alive, ather, bird, boy, byt, carnal, circles, cold, coloured, compose, cultivating, dark, down, enough, exhuberantly, eyes, feathered, feel, fire, firefly, fly, form, from, fullness, hanging, harpsichord, hate, have, high, him, hread, in, incadescently, infinity, it's, kind, lately, leave, life, like, litmus, logical, long, love, low, make, man, mathematics, measured, mine, mouth, moving, much, my, myself, note, obtuse, paper, parrot, pi, precisely, refuse, richly, s, said, see, should, silence, silk, soft, spark, stem, strip, such, them, thighs, thinking, to, too, travel, vibrant, want, way, who, without, word, wouldr, you
morning
8:30 a.m.
he did not recieve the text. good. so we chat. friends, not lovers, that we are: i question him of things and he shares his good news with me. at midnight. not that i didn’t ask him to, but he doesn’t bother informing you. funny?
relieved, i don’t think of the saved blushes and the heat does not rise to my cheeks: it doesn’t need to.
a sigh escapes like a fly through the open window, its wings no longer beating against the cold clear pane of glass.
phone on, i wait to hear a beep. from you or him, it hardly seems to matter.
i sleep lightly as of late, or as of early. since our trio of sleepover nights, it’s been better, but sometimes, i will wake up in the night and think you are with me, curled up on the floor.
no longer an insomniac, i don’t know how to classify myself. i want a tidy name to sum it all up. there isn’t one.
i’m on the edge right now and it’s nothing to do with the pair of you. my future lies within these very moments, encapsulated in the smell of old books and pheromones surging.
i call the number. it is busy. so i call again.
right now, all i care about is that the phone is picked up and they listen to me, if even for a while.
evening
9:30 p.m.
i heard a no. loud and clear, like a dead weight going into cold blue-black water.
deep, guttural sounds of a storm brewing. but the storm is already over. we lay on the deck and count the stars.
Posted in chapters of my life
Tagged about, again, against, already, are, ask, beat, been, beep, better, black, blue, blushes, books, bother, brewing, busy, call, care, chat, cheeks, classify, clear, cold, count, curled, dead, deck, deep, did, didn't, do, does, don't, early, edge, encapsulated, escape, even, evening, floor, fly, friends, from, funny, future, glass, going, good, guttural, hardly, he, hear, heard, heat, him, his, how, i, informing, insomniac, into, know, late, lay, lies, lightly, like, listen, longer, loud, lovers, matter, me, midnight, moments, morning, my, myself, name, need, news, night, no, not, nothing, now, number, old, on, one, open, our, over, pair, pane, pheromones, phone, picked, question, recieve, relieved, right, rise, saved, seems, shares, sigh, since, sleep, sleepover, smell, so, sounds, stars, strom, sum, surging, text, that, there, these, things, think, through, tidy, to, trio, up, very, wait, wake, want, water, we, weight, while, will, window, wings, with, within, you
i stumble
on the stepping stones of love;
instead of falling i
catch myself in time
to feel enough
to send me flying.
call me crazy
but i like it;
head spinning in your arms
i see his eyes
and drown in yours.
gentle does it.
Posted in excerpts
Tagged but, call, catch, crazy, does, drown, enough, eyes, falling, feel, flying, gentle, his, i, instead, it, like, love, me, myself, on, poems, poetry, s, see, send, stepping, stones, stumble, time, to, you, yours
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.
Posted in chapters of my life
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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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glittering soot on her eyelashes 