easter has vanished overnight
the way a girl who slept in your bed
disappears at sunrise,
with the high heels tucked under one arm
and her simple black dress somehow longer, subtler.
almost a present, you find her earring clasp on the floor
and an impression of her head on your pillow.
you fumble for a memory of her smile, the taste of her lips,
but nothing comes.
your fingers clutch at the flimsy hook of silver.
later, you realise that’s all there is to find.
next year, you see her again, at the same time, in the same place,
dancing with another man.
something compels you to smile at her.
she smiles back.
i’m changing tides,
a river bursting seams;
i’m not afraid of standing still
if i’m the only one not moving.
i douse myself in you, my skin alight
with million dazzling shades of white
and nothing matters: time is swaying here.
i pause my beat for night on night:
we know morality is all there is to care for–
–and then you say mistakes can sparkle in the sun,
i need to run and leave you in my place:
a human obelisk.
Posted in excerpts
Tagged burstings, dazzling, human, mistakes, night, obelisk, poems, poetry, river, seams, skin, sparkle, white, you
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.
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
through my paperround last year i met a wonderful man. he used to walk his dog as i’d deliver papers and we started talking around the time i started writing this blog. i think he’s 82: he must have mentioned it a while back. and i’m afraid there’s nothing literary about him: his existence is one of uncouth coutesy.
i quit the paperround a while back now but i still see him every sunday. nine o’clock in the morning, like church. he’s my little christian connection: even S is nowhere near taking his place. he gave me a bible with a picture of him in his youth stuck at the back, so that i remember him. secretly, i think, he believes that it will help me find him in heaven: he believes i will go there after all.
to my friends, this man is “the old man”. to me, he is much more than that. it may be true that i meet him every sunday partly because i feel like it’s my obligation, but also because somewhere beneath my skin there’s a tendon that connects me to him.
his wife died last night. or the night before that. and there’s no more words because i’m hurting for him. because how can one even begin to describe his pain?
i had made them a card only this march: they celebrated their 60th wedding annivesary.
sometimes he told me he wondered if she ever loved him but i know that was only because he loved her more than anything else. ever.
and it’s a little late for him to tell her, but i hope she knew. i think she knew.
Posted in chapters of my life
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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
Tagged about, affirmation, afternoon, all, anew, answers, anyhow, anything, arms, ask, away, barcelona, be, because, bed, blue, but, buy, by, call, clear, clock, devon, did, dream, dreamt, drown, else, ever, every, exist, eyes, far, fellow, few, follow, frame, gazee, girl, hands, have, here, hold, hot, ideal, if, immerse, inside, inspire, it, just, keep, know, lagoons, life, like, lonely, love, magic, me, middle, mind, more, morning, mosaic, my, need, never, night, no, nobody, not, Paris, penetrate, picture, place, questions, reason, relic, reminder, running, say, solid, sometimes, stalking, started, summer, than, that, them, there, they, think, this, tick, time, tock, touch, treasure, true, up, wake, want, water, way, were, what, when, whenever, where, which, whichever, whole, will, windowsill, with, wondering, writer, yet, you, yourself
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
Tagged always, background, banish, be, because, between, blind, bush, caressing, chance, cold, computer, daffodils, darker, darkness, de, don't, drop, early, enough, even, every, eyes, far, find, five, get, has, have, heart, hot, how, i, in, know, la, late, learnt, life, light, lost, may, maybe, me, morning, mouthing, my, myself, never, night, not, old, on, other, own, past, peonies, plata, poems, posts, red, refuse, reread, rio, river, rose, scrolling, seven, should, simply, sleeve, so, something, sometimes, spot, spots, sun, sunspots, than, them, there, three, through, time, tongue, try, undercurrent, understood, unexpected, unpracticed, vain, vibrancy, virginal, wash, water, what, when, white, within, words, wordsworth, would, years, yellow, yet