Tag Archives: pieces

83. write me a letter

 will anybody tell me if i’m missing out on life?

will anyone write me a letter just so i know?

and everybody seems to be making a film, a compilation of their thoughts right here, right now. irony is, i’m wasting my words on the wind, across the telephone wires that stretch inside my head. and when i am brave enough to speak my words out, they are spoken to you alone. what about the rest of the world? how will they ever know? 

you made a film with your friends. i guess that’s what you do in youth.
me? i used to leave my colouring books blank for fear of spoiling them. funny me.
and whenever creativity came to me, i wrote the words, drew the pictures on scraps of paper. i still have some of them. little pieces of my mind written in quickhand.

and though none of them relate to you, all that i remember of X is there: they are silent exultations, utterances of pain and dreams. they are free. 

sometimes, i still wish i coloured those pictures in.
and sometimes i know there’s no use wishing: it’s all too late now. i’ve sketched my life out in this morning sunshine. whatever happens now was always meant to be.

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76. i liked yellow as a child

what we are in the womb is everything we’ll ever be.
take you, take me, take S or X or Y, letters galore. take them all, take some more.
we can never change so long the warmth and darkness implores us. and if we can remember the dreams we had, they’ll be all we ever know.
i’m a girl tying pieces of the puzzles together. they still fit and i still am an involuntary virus to a willing host.

i liked yellow as a child.

and i told you, if you ever lied, i’d cheat on you.
well, that’s not true.
i wish i were that simple. i wish you knew that the river of you runs through my veins, pushed up against all gravity.

and that’s all the physics i know.

ride the moon and back

you cushion my falls
like a pillow
of finely ground murano glass,
with the voice of rustling leaves in october
crackling and shimmying underfoot.

your glass is my sand of world’s beaches,
where coloured lights we make break the dark,
warmth engulfing the contours of your body,
nectar flowing freely from the cup. 

so know 

it is for you,
i ride the moon and back,
hair flowing on the rising morning tide;
for all the nights you let me cry in the pillow
made from the ground pieces of your heart.

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.

all your loves

you are made of all your loves
like i am made of freshly mowed grass
scented candles
early morning dew

the passion in me
is the hope in you 

the dreams i dream
are nightmares you can’t place

 but

every time i see your face
i fall in love anew

not with sharp symmetry
but with the love in you

————————————————-

the world won’t ever stop because we want it to. love doesn’t metamorphose just because its broken. we are left with all the pieces. and the smell of freshly mowed grass.

how do you love me?

52. the wedding confetti of childhood

what forgiveness is there for fear, the unnecessary fear of sorts? the one we get when a balloon we’re blowing up explodes in our face, its thin rubber, suddenly in pieces, falling in slow motion to the floor. the wedding confetti of childhood.

what forgiveness is there?

and as i pick up the tatters of my spheres of untainted colour, once so full of air, now – stickenly empty, i wonder if we learn to forgive just like we learn to stop at the crossroads of life and choose the path well-trodden. for, sunshine, we are pack creatures, us humans, going through life like cattle entering the slaughterhouse.
we scent fear in others, just like we scent fear in solitude, but we always follow the leader.
that’s what makes us human.

it makes me wonder if growing up is something to be scared of or something one must learn to forgive themselves. for fear and forgiveness are never far from each other really. what we fear, we learn to forgive. what we forgive, we often fear.

but tell me, darling, why do i fear tomorrow, its powerful wings knocking me off the pedestal you, T, X, Y, you all, put me on?
why do i tremble with the thought of entering the world a year older, learning its ways anew, clutching the straws of past like a shield?

and i know there’s no means to contain time. it trickles by, running like sand through the fingers, never pausing for breath.
but we all try. 
and you must fogive me just this trying, this ever-present fear of fying without wings, for a year older, i still won’t be letting go of the marred ribbons of my life that kept me up thus far.

i want to see this confetti fly up into the sky.

51. sometimes

the world has a tendency to hit you all at once.
it leaves no time for pauses or breaks; no time for slow lives or lifeless existences.
this world you and i live in leaves us all only enough time for a sharp intake of breath before the tidal wave crashes.

but no matter the amount of sea-water in my nostrils, no matter the drenched clothes sticking to my paling torso or the panicky moment of blindness, when the eyes sting from the harsh impact, i always emerge victorious.

sometimes think it’s because of viktor.
his name could never be changed. there is no letter in the english alphabet with which to replace it. maybe there is one in the ukrainian but that’s of no matter – no anonymity will mask his identity.
he was my first love.
no, he was an obsession.
love is something beyond that, below that, above that. he was no more than a motive, a mute name to dedicate my life to. a pause in the middle of every sentence, a stubborn glitter in the eye. you know of him. everyone always does. his name is forever embedded on my lips, like an infected tattoo.

and upon those lips, he stands victorious. for as much as his victory is on my lips, my victory is on his shoulders. i’m not scared of tornados now, nor of broken hearts. i’m not scared of storms, nor of ruptured heart strings.

he showed me that a heart can shatter without a single word and i could tell you that syllables never uttered hit harder than any word ever could, but that would be hypocrisy and i can be no hypocrite for in him is the mirage of my own bravery. 

but ask me why it matters that the tuesday past one more admirer of my flawed mirror-glass started sweeping up the pieces of his fractured self. ask me and i will tell you, for that is one thing viktor will never know.  

sometimes you must let love flow through your fingers, like molten chocolate, its slowly solidifying mass sweetsmelling on your fingers.
sometimes you must let it go, ridding your soul of the little titbits that should no longer matter – the creased used tickets from journeys long past, the old postcards from people lost somewhere in translation, the newspaper articles cut-out badly with blunt scissors stored in a soiled envelope somewhere.

yes, that sometimes is inevitable, but for me it never comes.