05262011

another unsent letter…

Dear L.,

I’ve decided I must have dreamed talking to you last night. Maybe my spirit was trying to remind me of what it craves and needs in order for it to create. Maybe it was a twisted shard of mind just going off on its own tangents. You got me worked up and excited about something… about an odd sense of openness and rawness. And part of me knew that what I felt was palpable… tangible… real. You set me in motion, as if I were a clock. A clock that kept ticking and ticking, though unpredictably. How can that be? Does it make sense? Because, then, I was thinking all night… thinking about things you’d said… and things you didn’t say.

And thinking… about what sits inside the silence… and waits… and grows.

What would Renoir make of it all? Another brush-stroked depiction of reality, or reality as he perceives it? How would Eliot form it into words? How would he describe me… describe you? How many stanzas would it take… to make… us?

What are you doing right now? What thoughts are brushing against your shoulders, asking to be allowed entry through your hair and beneath your skin? Will you get lost in thoughts and stay there all evening… all night? But… please don’t answer these questions. It would break the silence… so fluid… that we share. Instead, I will sit here and keep thinking… and keep talking to myself… to you.

Yet, I am at a loss for words, I who always seem to find the words to express just what it is I wish to say. Yes… I am… at a loss… utterly. I will keep my lips shut and feel the words inside my head. I will stay silent… and maybe you will come along and draw the words from inside me… where I guard them as one guards a secret… where they sit… waiting.

But… let me say this: You just might turn out to be the purest thing that has happened to me in a while. You are like honey. You smell of… earth… of… spice… of… human emotion. You smell like… original sin. You smell like something that exists inside the imagination… but can never be real.

But you are real.

And so.

I let go the thoughts. I let go the angst. I let go the trap.

I let go…

But you’ve got me caught… between your fingers. And you are molding me… ever so sweetly. And I am bending and folding in the warmth of your hands… my limbs filled with tingles… my heart filled with arrows… my eyes filled with dreams.

With devotion,

N.

05242011

last night, i kept losing the moon

one moment, there… just there

the next, gone

one moment, illuminated

the next, hidden by clouds

black clouds

that started by concealing it

and ended by stealing it

while the leaves of trees

turned in the wind

revealing shades

of light and shadow

there is a missing window

inside this room

the window looking out

upon the moon

there must be

i know it

and how did i hope

to see you, moon

when the window framing you

had vanished from sight?

and how do i hope

to keep you, moon

when the heavens fight over you

and win, always, both battle and war?

05182011

she said to me,

i would have tried harder

if only he had shown me

a sign.

i said to her,

you would have tried harder

if only… if only…

conditionally.

but

we are all

(aren’t we?)

such creatures

of condition

and circumstance.

05162011

there is nothing

more enchanting

than a late afternoon

in the company of love

listening to beautiful music

sipping fragrant wine

whispering 

quietly

to one another

in the gaps

between

one note and the other

one bar and the other

one touch of lips

and the next

…

bewitching

…

touch

…

of fingertip

…

to breast

...

05152011

i have been writing of angels. angels of darkness. angels of light. and, why angels? i don’t know. i can’t know. let the writing take itself wherever it pleases to go. if i try to make of it something it doesn’t wish to be, it resists. if i try to make it up from something it never was, it resists. i have fought with my writing before. there is no longer a place for that.

if it is angels who are infesting my imagination, let them come, then.

i open the door. i allow them in.

they sit with me. they speak to me.

of me. of you. of them.

they speak. i listen.

and whatever they say

is etched upon my soul.

and i write.

and i write.

and i write.

and

the writing flows

violet ink on white paper

and

the white light of angels

beams inside my words…

05142011

i get excited

thinking about tomorrow

because tomorrow

will be beautiful

(do you see how

tomorrow

juts out

in the second line?

do you see how

she announces

herself

so flagrantly?)

05122011

yesterday

an alchemy

and today

a storm

a tempest

a disturbance in the sky

an upheaval of the heavens

and their reverse below

and i…

i take

a sadistic pleasure

in…

my home

more embracing

my heart

more warm

my spirit

more vibrant

in the arms of

this…

and this...

and this...

my shuddering tempest

my turbulent sky

05102011

this song...

every time i hear this song

i remember that time

in another life… in another country

when you had to go away

for a very long time

and i was just sitting there

one quiet afternoon

minding my own business

and this song came on the radio

and the tears pricked my eyes

and my soul fell on its knees

fell… so terribly

and i closed my eyes

hoping to trap the tears

trying to escape

from between my lashes

but they fell

unstoppably

and this evening

i was just sitting there

minding my own business

and this song came on

in the middle of a random shuffle

and the tears pricked my eyes

and all that other stuff…

it happened too

though you are here

and i couldn’t find the words

when you asked why

why was i gasping

with such helpless abandon

my lips as mute as my spirit

my breath shunning my heart

but those tears

fell

those tears

that my heart recognized

as the truth of my soul

coming from his lips

the lips of this man

this stranger

who i did see

once upon a time

not in my dreams

but in the flesh

in another life

in another time

this man

who has stripped

so shamelessly

the tar-painted

walls of my heart

            in the absence

the star-painted

walls of my soul

            in the presence

of you, my love

05092011

the first unsent letter...


Dear P.,

You walked away, that day, thinking I would forget those moments when you had been my anchor. And the saddest thing is you really believed yourself. But, truth is, you believed this because you sorely wanted to believe it. You violently wished to be the victim, the “abandoned” one. As if being abandoned is some sort of honor or trophy to wear and flaunt.

Will we ever recapture that moment of eternity we once shared?

You know, I tried to take a photograph of your last letter to me… because, though you did not declare it, I knew it was your last. But, it was as if my camera was seized by a ghost. Every photograph I took was blurry and foggy to my eyes. Maybe, then, it was not the photographs that were blurred, but rather, perhaps it was my vision? Yes, were my vision truly as perfect as I wish it to be, there would have been no taking of photographs, in the first place. After all, what purpose does a photograph of a letter serve, when I have the true letter in my possession?

Today, as I think of you, I see you there, in that place of yours… that place beside the sea. I see you painted upon the back of my head like an emblazoned image tucked neatly inside the predictability of a fresco. I see you… though you no longer see me. What thoughts linger inside your head as you sit at your kitchen table and sip your warm flavored tea? What memories haunt your eyes by day, your lips by night, sending you into a barrage of nocturnal, slumberous dreaming and story-telling? What secrets do you tell to those who wait to listen… to hear… to learn your deepest thoughts?

And what do you make of loneliness? What do you make of its engulfing arms, winged, and cold, and ready to collapse around you?

And what, my dear, do you make of fear?

I leave you, now. I have questions of my own... begging to be answered.

Yours,

N.

05072011

some nights

when dreams come

i hold them down

to the ground

for fear

they will overpower me

with some memory

with some agony

happy or sad

and i tell myself

they are now

imprisoned

helpless

hopeless

chained

by my seamless hands

yet

the truth is

dreams are

fleeting

ethereal

free

and last night

my seamless hands

lost them so quickly

05042011

i want to say…

something feels broken

not cracked

not frayed

broken is broken

there is no sealing it

there is no healing it

instead…

i offer myself

the gift of oblivion

i light a candle

to this magical loss

i sit with it

and beg it

to release me

to rediscover me

in a new and different way

i’ve a restless heart

heavy with the burdens

of others’ stories

stories not mine

stories in search

of being released

i want to say

that other thing

i say, instead…

my hurt is mine

your hurt is yours

and mine

now talk to me

tell me your story

05012011

in this white

and silent space

i sometimes hear

the vibrant thud

of heavy stone

the tinkling

of shattering glass

thin and vulnerable

and confused

rocks hurled

to break

life

blood

bone

but i do not shudder

and i do not fall

for the light shines

naked and bright

and after all

we are all

(aren’t we?)

porcelain dolls

living

in glass houses