When Was It?

What was it? Chocolate brown or caramel?
The color of earth or sweet candy?
Burnt sugar or weathered leaves?
Maybe it was a pleasant soothing brown
Or maybe a piercing cold shade of a warm color.
What was it? The color of her eyes, that made my day.

How was it? Sweet and soft like cotton candy?
Or hard and permanent like a strong flavor?
Like a frost bite lasting in my mind with pain and thunder?
Maybe it was nothing special
Or maybe her breath on my neck was better.
How was it? The taste of her lips when I kissed her first.

Did I tell you? The pleasant windy warmth?
The soothing sensation and familial abode in her voice?
Like an honest word, never denied nor accepted.
Most of all never rejected. Or maybe it was how I heard her?
Maybe it was just another conversation in a crowded room?
Did I tell you? How easily she made me laugh.

When was it? Summer or winter?
When she wore cotton shirts or high boots?
Was it the chill that froze me or the heat that took over me?
Maybe it was spring, a quite morning
Or maybe it was the melancholic autumn
When was it? When I told her I loved her.

Letters.

The apartment where she lived, was very small. They had looked at each other long and hard enough, he smelled her and kissed her, she smiled and touched him, long enough. When nights were cold, they would tell each other warm stories of hills in summers and beaches in winters. Stories made and forgotten, nights passed as easy as days. Their letters were regular, sometimes he didn't reply, and sometimes she refused. Relationships on letters are fragile and longer, they counted on the longer part. Love, it might have been, since the correspondence was frequent enough, it felt like love. Yes, it was love.

My dear,

It should be raining that night, when I meet you again. Intoxicated and drenched, I believe they never fail to create magic. Magical and unreal, like our other meetings. I would see you by my favorite place. Come high, you know I am shy of your staring. The skin, be it through multiple layers of inhibiting wool and cotton, feels familiar. Like the touch of warm blanket, heated by my own body, the smell, the taste, all familiar and comforting. 

The room is small and dim, the moment we'd enter, you'll pull me to a corner. Start kissing, it feels like the first kiss. The very first one, which stupefies and satiates only to be repeated over and over again. Your lips taste like that of a new lover, whose passion hasn't worn out, who hasn't been many places. So I dive in to suck in more of that innocence. Your hands move onto my back, underneath the sweater and it sends a chill, such cold hands. I make us stop for a moment, look into your eyes, tell you I love you and kiss your flaws. Flaws of imbecile love and unrequited wishes, flaws from dreadful dreams and miles of distance.

Despite the doubt, fear and transiency, I pull you over me. Ah! How warm you are now, and how perfectly we fit together, how well our contours embrace each other and don't demand too many movements.I ask you again, if you are sure, you remain silent and put your lips over mine, all over again. The dimness has turned into dark, and this doesn't feel like I thought it would. Its like the hunger is gone. We are still high but are overcome by a strange sadness..not sad really..but a poignant heavy love. But you come over me again, and it feels unlike anything. Its not sex, and its not making love, its like a confession, a surrender, a submission of flaws. I take you in warmly and we are in something extra ordinary.Greatly satisfying and piercing.

I wish I could write more, I thought a lot more, but there is a knock on the door, it must be him. 

Goodbye.

Unfaithfully, yours.

Chameleon.

Its hard to find people who take just what you give, we are all needy miserable. Some want too less
some want too much. A peace, is rarity almost an illusion but we still keep hoping for it.And get sad when nothing close to it is achieved. People who are together for a very long time, are two disturbed people who have found the perfect balance of the amount they feed each other of themselves. Basically, a balance of neurosis  Our times are that of cracking-up and they have always been, because there is always an option for something better. Something nicer, something that makes a bit more sense, gives a little more love, expects lesser and asks fewer questions. But the fingers get pointed back to ourselves.

Don't we all have a chameleon soul, that once dreams of running away into a never ending road with strangers who are comforting. And then all of a sudden it wants to get married to that illusion of perfect someone, the one you read about, the one who reminds you of childhood and nascent dreams of innocence and premature lust. The road never begins and we keep struggling in bridging this gap between innocence and experience. A kind of experience that is liberating and conforming at the same time. A profane kiss, an illegitimate love affair, a corrupted affection and a hidden masochist; this experience that is the keyhole to a wretched yet exciting universe. But then we move back a few steps, and decorate our living room which looks like a promise of 25 years and more. A comfortable and sophisticated sofa, a medium sized bed, a sufficient dining table, kids like decorations and an evening in solitude. Is it a choice, or a great illusion of one.

There is a gift, that very few of us have. There is a great struggle that preludes to this gift. Gift of peace. These men and women have found the bridge and a companion to build a cottage with on it. These lucky ones learn to love without consequences. They greet people from both side with warmth and respect, maybe because they understand the anxiety, or maybe because even their abode is not satisfying and misery of these travelers is comforting for them. Maybe happiness is settling for the illusion. Think of the ideal in your head that can never be fulfilled, think of the burden it might have brought, and then maybe watch television quietly at night, so your partner, who is capable to sharing the loneliness, doesn't wake up.

But, after all the talking, I feel like hugging someone. Hugging is so comforting, if its the right person.

Final Cut.

Bleeding, not from a wound or a ceremony
But its spilled on the ground and its hard to walk
Pick up the corpses, and wipe this off
Clean shirts are rare to find, why'd you have to ruin it?

The sand is stuck in my toe nail
The prettiness of this beach is immersed in gray
The sun hurts my eyes, and you said we'd stay inside
Take it away, my foot hurts, why'd you have to bring me here?

Take the clothes off. Slow or fast, doesn't matter.
Touch the skin once. Feel it on your fingers
Run them along the contours. No. Not like this.
I was waiting for so long, why do never do it right?

Its dark, lonely, cold and wet. I hate this together.
A finale now, finishing up the fragmented mess
That pretended to be a happy saviour. Say goodbyes.
But the blade was cold too, why is it so hard make the final cut?

Souvenirs.

I know the strike was deadly and final
Your head fell straight and bled itself lifeless.
Death doesn't change anything, only makes us still.
You were as silent as you were ten years ago.



It all started with a souvenir,
The one you got from your lover.
It smelt of her sex and hair, as I played with my tiny hands.
Little, I was, and have always been. Too little, too easy.
Easy and vulnerable enough to fall back in your arms
Again, and again, and again, after every conscious fall.

I made the souvenir my mantle,
And placed every man as an artifact of memories
Memories of love, affection, warmth, always seen, never felt.
The big book filled page by page, recording lost pieces
Broken and lost souvenirs of men as lovers, and lovers as faded memories.
But you, I never lost. Nor did I hide, but I kept yours always safe.

At nights you put me to sleep, some days we laughed.
Then I kept seeing the wound, in you, me, in him and her.
You kept slipping and lying, I did the same, and to many.
Happiness is disillusionment, the mourning is reality.
The plasticity of your being in my nostalgia shop
Suffocates and murders every possibility of an escape from wonderland.

Vividness takes over my mind as I sit opposite.
You are still the vacant monster who stole my light
But did you set fire to my shop,
And broke all those souvenirs.
Lie to me once more
And I am prepared..

Vivid.

"But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view

And we'll live a long life

So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light

Cause oh they gave me such a fright

But I will hold as long as you like

Just promise me we'll be alright"

A sad song, playing behind our warm and moist hands. Summers fall sharp in this city, though rain wins all, and winter leaves cold scars. Memories exists in the faint smell of her skin and is affirmed by a remembrance of her regular assuring touches. Lingering sounds of laughter and sighs, beauty of absence is its strength and ability to make us day dream.

Surreal, this is how it feels. Recalling our spoils and ruins. But tonight, after a very long time, she is right here with me. There is a colorful vividness in the air, its blue and gray. So, i take her hand around my arm and walk. My heart is filled with love, the strong powerful and ever lasting one. The beauty is that, all this seems nothing more than just a part of a dream. A long fulfilling colorful dream, I might wake up, or die here. The facts don't matter. At times my vision blurs, and her touch revives me back.

"Remember that time when we bought a house together, faintly yellow it was. I tried letting you settle in, but it was haunted by the woman you loved before me. Anyways, when we are done we can see that abandoned shrine again, where you gave up the hope of permanency."

I smile and nod. She remembers the place, I remember how free that commitment was, the one of never going in again. Neither to the beautiful convenience nor to my satisfying lover.

"If you become that man you said you will, I will come visit you. We will make love in unisex washrooms, and let people wonder where your secret lies. If you do not become the man you said you will, I will come visit you. We will go to our favorite places, cry a little, hug, and go home."

I wish I become the man I believe in. The road ahead seems slightly blur and famished, it requires feeding and dreaming. My eyes are  not sore yet, but when she held my hand tightly towards the end, I felt scared.

"I love you. What do you think of drowning? I think that must be satisfying, a relief of getting rid of emptiness. You know I read somewhere that suicide is the ultimate act of genius. It might be, but what is dying really? Aren't we dead already."

Since her question, colors became more vivid. And her hand started slipping, did that mean we were already floating, dying? Or did it mean that it must be quite a relief. I am losing comprehension, but she talks anyways. I love her.

" I am too scared, love. This will never end. I might sit in the throne of your/my ambitions, I might become the woman who found an answer. But this will never end. Come with me, love. Its all way too tiring. The roads, the clouds, the rain, the heat, the chill, the hunger, why don't we step into the water and forget."

My grip tightens, surprisingly I don't refuse her invitation  It really is too tiring, though I want that throne, but its really very hard to refuse her. So I follow as she leads me to safety.

A smile and shivers...I have never woken up from a dream like this.

Loved.

I curled my little finger around his
The warmth was less, I wanted more
But today it feels alright
Because its very cold outside.

We walked through the snow,
Breathed the fog, went home and
Made love on his soft cold bed
He fills me with warmth and assuring masculinity.

Then I lay on his chest, running my cold fingers
On his dark warm skin. A passionate smile
I feel the ruins on his skin
And he feel through my fallen legacy.

Love is transient and so is happiness.
I mourn its loss in peace, and
Welcome its arrival with anxiety.
But right now, in his arms, for few moments
I feel loved.