Tag Archives: real

80. this once, its more than enough

bonne anniversaire!

i like the way it rings, reverbrating from the eardrums straight into the heart. it’s been a year.
only.
already.
and i don’t know how to feel, i just feel the need to thank you for the knowledge that someone in the world matters more than the world itself. je t’adore. and i’m not joking. sometimes, not too often, i catch myself pause in the middle of the sentence when i look at you because thoughts that flush into my head like tapwater into a blocked sink.

i’d say remember, but you do. every word i say. you’re magic, you hear me? maybe. telekenisis? unlikely. but know, if you do, that though you’re not here but somewhere else, my feeling never wanes. artificial flowers never wilt; real emotion never dies. sometimes it just recedes to the back of the mind. like magic.

you gave me the rosary beads from your first communion as a gift this morning. placed it along with your card on my porch. and i swear, i didn’t know what to do. it seemed like so much. a universe of you in my palm. 
and i couldn’t wait to ask you about the meaning, though i knew. and you knew that i do. it’s a game we play because neither of us likes losing.

it’s a symbol that i’m ready to learn about it with you. and i can’t be sure that’s exactly what you said, but that’s what i heard.

and i’m stuck for words, but i sit here clutching at metal and plastic made to look like glass in silence and i know wherever i go, you’ll follow.
sometimes emotion is enough to fill the silence. this once, its more than enough.

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71. thank you for the magic

when i was little i wanted to make magic, to pull the rabbit out of the hat and make things disappear before your very eyes. i got little magic kits for bithdays and watched magic shows on tv. i was an avid learner who learnt nothing at all, because now i know the real magic
this is it.
and though it comes rarely, its arrival like a flight of a flock of swallows migrating south where warmth is surer, lustier, this is it. grass is always greener on the other side. bar this one. i’m not moving.

before you fly away, there’s always a rush of events whose sole purpose is to please me into oblivion until you are gone and the empty space forms where you ought to be. only this monday we found our song as we kissed in the middle of it, shakira singing for the crowd in which we were engulfed. that was your birthday present to me: shakira concert the day before the winter soltice.
today, it was your birthday: a small affair of our closest friends and family ties. but morning was ours. so absolutely ours.

magic is the feeling of being utterly in love. it is when you can’t help wondering qué haré si no te vuelvo a ver. it is melting in another’s arms like snow on warm day. it is falling in love and not knowing how to stop. not even wanting to stop.

and every time you go away, i wonder what will i do if i never see you return.

thank you for the magic.

59. at last!

‘excuse me. can you tell me where the  station is?’

i stop. it’s early, sunday morning, i have four dozen newspapers on my back and then, a change of route. i pause. ‘err- the station? just walk down this road. you’ll see it in 200 meters on errr- that side’. then i look up. the guy’s about my age. i can’t remember his face, just his hair. it was straight, dark brown. and his gaze was so direct.

i heard the mumbling ‘you’re pretty’, gaze seemed unrelentless.
i smiled. how long ago have i heard that from someone? it’s always you’re beautiful from you. you’re so extravagant, my darling, you are!

‘thank you’ came out of my upturned lips, but i felt a nervous jittery feeling. he seemed so lost. could i have helped him? could i have cured the hunger for company eradiating in his eyes? no, i told myself, no.
so i said ‘you’ll find the station alright? just keep walking straight, you’ll see it‘ and i walked away. without long goodbyes, without any sense of pleasure in deprature.

excuse me, excuse me!‘. almost desperate, he was there again, a hundred meters on, in the wrong direction, next to me. ‘do you know the time?‘ i did. it was twenty past seven. gloomy morning.
he didn’t want to leave. he stood there gazing, telling me his friend ‘got beat up‘ and it as a ‘rough night but seeing a pretty girl…‘ and then, ‘can i whisper something into your ear?‘ i wasn’t keen – one never knows a thief. ‘if you must‘.
he saw my reluctant reaction.
so he said it out loud.
the street was empty.
there was noone who would hear.
and yet it was all so real.

i want to suck you out

and it took him so much to say it.
what was it, desire? impulse? lust?

so here i am. muneca brava. at last!

37. as if i was the princess and you were the pea

and we are one, your kisses – multitudes of words, your heart beating out the rhythm in the lagoon of poetry that is life. somehow no longer my life and your life, but our life; two rivers merging into one. who knows if and where they will split again?

and this happiness is odd, overpowering, ostentatious.
this happiness cares for noone and nothing. it surges through my arteries when you hold me close, crowning my cheeks with a rose-tinted glow, as if i was the princess and you were the pea, keeping me awake at night when all i wanted was a warm bed to rest in.

and i’ve grown romantic. through the lack of sleep or else, illness. got myself a little diary with pictures of Paris in it, just so i could mark the date of us, the real beginning, in it, next to la Tour Eiffel, or next to le Bon Marché or maybe even in the calendar slot where it should be – the 6th of april.
and i have. i put a cross there, in that empty white box, a little “x”. a flittering kiss, a mark of my love, whatever one may take it for.
and though you may never see it or hear of it, it will always be there.

it reassures me i that i learnt how to love again.
after X, after Y.

25. a little more single

valentine’s day tomorrow.
everyone knows that. most people care. some, like me, are a little more weary of its coming. a little more reserved. a little more single.

walking the streets today was like waking up in a foreign room. every pattern established over the duration of the year (bar Christmas time) had changed. for today only. all the world needed today was a banner screaming for one night only like those one off concerts by a renowned superstar.
illustrious illusion of love taking the world by storm:
the vendors on the streets shouting roses, not their usual bananas or tomatoes;
the music blasting from the shops a mixed array of romantic songs, every single one played to death;
and hearts, chocolates, champagne everywhere.

call me a cynic, but i just can’t stand it all. a dog should be for life not just for Christmas, so love should be for every day, not just the internationally-recognised day of coupling.

i say that but i still don’t know what real love is and noone’s in a hurry to show me.
you went off to Devon. i have to you said and i don’t doubt that you do. you ought to see your gran and if it so happens you visit overlaps with the day we should have spent together, that’s fine by me. no, honestly, it is.
it reminds me of the fact i’m free again. amen.
as to X, oh to hell with X. hot, cold, freezing, boling and then cold again. who knows that boy?
something tells me i never did.

and never will.