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Flavours of peach

My mother bought peaches today. Soft, plushy, pink orange, colours of my grandmother's garden in full bloom. The mellow smell of peaches opens me up inside and fills me with nostalgia for summertime in Albania.
Memories of messy bites and juice running down sticky, tiny hands. A sweet and prickly taste fills my mouth with images of open spaces and hot, dry courtyards, sounds of grandmother washing carpets and children playing on the streets and dust wearing only shorts and cotton vests...
Peaches, remind me of the smell and the tickling touch of my mother's hair on my face as she put me to bed late during hot starry southern nights. And hugs. And love. And rosy soap on my face before bedtime...
It's amazing, how many different flavours you can taste on a single peach.
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But so does life...

No, I'm not upset my loves. I'm looking for a poem, a line, or word. One that's not been said before.  I'm looking in the water for lost sounds to describe the colour: dark blue-green, sunshine-drizzled waves, playing with the wind. I am quite happy laying in this place of light and calm, looking at the light grey clouds, waiting for a drop of rain to come. Waiting for a drop of rain to fall on my lips and quench my thirst for inspiration.  I think, I imagine, I daydream, of poems and lines, and words I would never dare to speak or write. Harsh stanzas that only rhyme with the broken rhythm of life. Fast poems that my tongue will slam in secret around my mouth until the overflow pours out. I think bills and forms and things I don't want to think about. I look at you and think again about the good things in life, my lovers, my loved ones. Your eyes, I daydream of them looking deep into mine and then snap. Snap out of it.  I am the harsh, the broken, the unrhymed. Th…

Worn off

Another day and nothing happens.
My ears echo, I'm drowning in deep waters and I die.
This is how I die.
With every second my heart beats slower and my dreams stretched far away start running from me. My dreams, abandoned, worn off, pissed off, reject me. They stick up their noses, they won't talk to me.
This is how I die.
In crowds and constant noises of conveyor belts for fifteen hours in a day that only lasts another second and I wait, for rest.
My dreams, worn off. My jacket, worn off. My soul... crushed under the conveyor belt.
This is how I die.


Food chewed yesterday still sticks on his lips.
Beans, meat, bread,
Something like vomit between his front teeth.
His breath smells like spices
and cigarettes.
His mouth staining
her dishwasher liquid skin.
His mouth, recounting
last night's stains on soapy sheets,
to his rotten food mouthed friends.
Beer, laughter, curse, curse, so much cursing...

Their mouths
our washed up names.

Just a day...

Her bed is a warm home made of duvets and pillows that were once clean and fresh. But today she cannot be bothered. Clothes thrown everywhere, but who needs clothes. Who needs clothes.
There is no food in the fridge, but there are chocolates on the side of the bed. They have been stepped on, but they're still good to eat in the short moments when she's awake. There's tears falling lazily, unnoticeable. Her nose doesn't even wrinkle up, her skin calm and frozen under leftovers of a full face of make up from three days ago.

The statue on Sunny Hill

It's always cold on the streets of Sunny Hill, where the voice of the begging child is muted by large cars that come from all sides in an unspoken rule of chaos.
It's always lonely.
People warm up near expensive fireplaces and take their cars to work.
They don't need the sun in Sunny Hill.
The city lights they can see from marble balconies as they smoke a cigarette or two shine better in the dark, the view is breathtaking. Warm coats, cold is not an issue on Sunny Hill.
But the begging child sits alone, in corners, hoping for some food, warmth, or maybe a golden coin.

There's only cars on the cold streets, and a statue of a poor child, admiring the marble balconies of Sunny Hill.

Icebergs between us

Baby got flames in her head and an explosive heart. You made her just the way you wanted. Baby got big eyes and a button nose and curls the shape of angry oceans. Baby got secrets, drowned treasures underneath the surface. But baby, is just the way you wanted. Soft skin glitters under the sun, lips pale, like pink chewing gum.
Baby, all cheekbones and smile, and tempest inside. Because that's the way you wanted.
Baby, baby. So humble, so kind. She nods. She knows her place... It's in her mind.
Baby, strangers praise: you've made her so well.
So humble, so kind, no praise, don't mind.
But baby got secrets, drowned, lost deep inside. You made her skin, her teacup eyes and chewy lips but baby, baby's all fire inside.