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Showing posts from November, 2015

If I could be loved...

Don't look at me. Please.

I want to be loved inside out.

I hope you can fall for the short afternoons of our conversations and the loud sound of my heart. I hope you can understand I will never be yours and love me nonetheless. Like I would too. I want you to send me warm rays of sun in the morning and whisper words of peace into my soul.

Please. Don't look at me. My skin can bruise and wrinkle. My hair changes with the seasons and my lips may be too dry for you to kiss. Oh, but we wouldn't kiss!

Your distant lips would be ghostly on mine. In a dream world, you would kiss me straight into my heart and our souls set on fire would make endless love.

I'd want you to feel me beyond time, with faraway winds that bring my thoughts and wishes. Find me spread out in the earth that grows wild flowers and pink petals in the desert's cacti. Hear me in the sound of heavy rains and love me.

Don't look at me with eyes full of lies and desire, for that has hurt me enoug…

Dance is a metaphor. Passion is the hidden word.

A pirouette. One, unlike the pretty little ballerinas in pink. A bright and vibrant pirouette. One with all the passion and speed of the angriest of winds. She falls back on her legs shaking. Another pirouette. A violent arabesque.

She is not a ballerina in pink tutu. She's a woman in red cheeks and hot sweaty skin. Anger is the only technique she knows. Nothing subtle about her moves. Nothing polite and elegant. Nothing holding back. She dances to break her legs. Nothing would give her more pleasure.

She falls on the ground, backwards. Laughs. Imagines her arms just falling off as she shakes them up in the air, with all the strength in her. Her bed's a cliff top, the sea is wild underneath. She jumps and spreads her wings like a bird. Lets herself burn like a phoenix.

Her body flows with every heartbeat. As if it was made of waves. These waves of anger tickling her veins like she's been injected with music. Hair-pulling, body-moving, skin-scratching anger.

Faster than…

Under the shadows of feeling blue we forgot some happiness...

The air feels heavy with the bitter smell of gas.

He whistles together with the pipes. There's a certain harmony between him and his job.He likes it, even though his lungs must not like it a lot if they're inhaling gas all the time. His hands seem to be made for twisting pipes, like my brain is for twisting words.

Does it hurt? I would guess, they won't be soft and elegant like the boys that sometimes hold mine.
But he does his job with a smile on his face that I have long not seen in college boys, or me.

He likes to explain what he does, and he makes it sound so interesting. So happy. So simple it sounds, yet, I don't understand a thing. But I smile, and I nod, and I listen carefully to his cheerfulness.

He moves lightly, like air. Like gas. Like a flowing poem. His working tools sit in his hands as if he were a perfect statue. Someone should make that statue.

So many artists have been spent on mystery and misery, beautiful women and verses of love, while this r…

Real love.

Typing a story is like playing on a piano. You have to love each key, your hands are in tune with your heartbeats and it feels as if they just type away with a brain of their own.

Writing, it's like making love. No. It's better. It lifts you up in a sky full of whatever your strange strange head creates. It makes your heart breath and your lungs pump.You're producing rhythms of pictures in your head.

It's musical, photographic, it's the most intense way of expressing yourself. Writing, is every art.
In the end, it is, straightforward thinking put to shape, through every single comma, and every single dot upon an i.

Writing is my greatest love, and I give my all to it. I don't even care if it's good or bad. I can never stop. I can never give it up. I will never want to. I want nothing in return.

I could write about anything and everyone and nothing else in life could matter. I could live forever.
Writing feels like, drinking a glass of water after danci…

Across the fog!

You're far, my lovers. Far across the sea. Far in the horizon, where only these white ships can find you.

Remember the Adriatica. The big, beautiful floating Adriatica. I knew it only too well as a child. Summertime, early morning, waiting, expecting with love and hope, and excitement. Ready for hugs and tears of nostalgia.

You're far now my lovers. I left in the end. I'm the one crossing boarders now. Somewhere, someone waits for me, across the sea. I don't wait anymore. It's been many years since the time we waited for Adriatica. The excitement faded long ago.

I sit on the window sill. Winter, cold and damp. Wouldn't it be wonderful if big white Adriatica appeared out of the fog and brought some sunshine, and a promise of love?

Afterparty

Fireworks always seemed to her like just another horrible gun. Shot to the sky and it is left injured and bleeding sparkles. The noises. The noises just like the guns she remembers too well. Breaking the sound of thought...

Sounds like these, are mostly scary in silence, outside in the unexpected. But loud music and massive screaming crowds dumb them down. They're safety. Crowds of drunken youngsters and music loud enough for your heart to beat to it, that fills you up and makes you feel like life's a lake and you're floating gracefully (nothing graceful about sweaty wasted miniskirt wearing, weird dancing girls, but the feeling matters).

All she wanted to do was to keep floating. Away from everything she knew and everything she felt. The things that, could come back with silence. The things that, could scare her in her sleep and make her weak to the sounds of fireworks.

Can't go home tonight. Little girl needs to be cuddled. Not left alone in the scary night. Can…

Not a missing piece.

He reads what I write and every time he does my heart skips a beat. This man, whom I know to be the worst.  He reads me page by page and he also says beautiful words.

I reply cold as ice. My mind strong and my heart distanced. My skin shivers every time I hear his voice. Every time I see his messages: I love you - No you don't!

If you loved me you wouldn't sit and read some stupid metaphors. You'd find me and take me in your chest and keep me safe. If you loved me I would have known what that felt like. I would have never forgotten. If you loved me I would have liked the taste of my birthday cake and I would have hugged and thanked you. I would have maybe not felt the need to celebrate.

If you loved me you would have been the first to know that I'm doing well. That I'm making new steps. That I have plans. That I'm in love.

If you loved me I wouldn't have a piece of me missing. I wouldn't have to be strong. I wouldn't have to modify the memories o…