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.
Posted in chapters of my life
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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.
Posted in chapters of my life
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after monday it seems like we are treading on broken eggshells, not knowing what to say or do. not even knowing why the whole world seems to have tumbled in our paths. and yet it’s not hurting us, just making us stronger, more resilient, more aware of each other’s wants and needs and loves.
and it’s odd but something clicked just then, something that changed our lives inconspicuously, like the faintest rainbow that brings to life even the gloomiest skies.
and i wonder if you’d have told me last night that you were in love with me if something, anything in our lives was different. and i only wonder because i want to believe that you meant it. i want to believe it so much that a violent spasm constricts my chest every time i think about your love giftwrapped and placed upon my heart. your faith in my trust, my trust in your faith, like a gold chain upon my neck, intervined.
i don’t care if you’re not in love with me, but i’m in love with you was what you said and somehow that took me like a spell in the midst of all that i was feeling then. somehow it didn’t matter that you still cared about your ex or that i was insecure about everything from “a” all the way through to “z”.
i almost believe in magic again.
Posted in chapters of my life
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