Sunday, December 5, 2010

Jigsaw.


1.

Finally the day came when I wrote a letter that didn’t have your name on it.

Somewhere between reading volumes on how to save the world from itself and meeting impossible deadlines, I realised how there was a part of my life I could never really share with you, because you were too lost in your own little world where real things didn’t really exist, except as inspiration to fuel your canvas. Somewhere between the incessant morbidity of selling my soul for a degree, I saw our child materialise and he didn’t know who he was. He asked me how he was born and I didn’t know what to tell him.

He was a love child. A child born of love. And all his curious questions made me hate him because they reminded me of everything you had been and how it had all fallen apart.

Whose lips are you going to kiss?
No one’s.
I’d kiss you, but your lipstick is worth more than my lips.


So I had a pre-emptive abortion and left without my baggage, with the ghost of our child leaning his forehead against the window, looking outside to the world for the answers we never had.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

The Greater Sin.



When did I know?
Right after I realised he had asked me for a dance and I had, unknowingly, turned him down.

It was a fairy tale moment, a moment too good to be put into words for fear of it being lost in translation. It upset me how it was always just moments with him, and not much else. But there was a quavering madness in each of them. A smoulder of hushed emotions, emotions bottled and stored and kept hidden for too long.

The way our eyes met across the room and both of us looked away instinctively, as if seared for an instant.
The way your hand slid upon mine in an overcrowded train and stayed there for the tiniest second before it disappeared.
The way I followed your shadow in the glass frame of one portrait to another.
The way your scent filled me up as I glanced at your victorious smile beneath thick lashes and an uncharacteristic blush.
The way your voice sounded in my ear right before I ran off.

None of it made any sense.

In another story, you were just another stranger on the street.
In another episode, you were the king and I was the spy.
In another lifetime, I was the landlord and you were the refugee.

None of it ever made sense.

And I lost a lot of sleep and peace of mind over it.
It was never going to work. It couldn’t.
And yet, you and I let it go on to be a force that gained so much momentum it physically hurt to stay away.

Your love was in Beirut.
Mine was in Berlin.
And yet.
It didn’t make sense.

We were monsters of our own creation.
Right after a whirlwind of unsaid things and fireworks over the river, right after a walk past midnight life and a sweet, sweet voice message on my phone, you retract into oblivion and I pretend I don't care.
Right after dismissing other eager people with your arm around my waist with such careless abandon, you come to claim ownership and I smile politely and excuse myself. You pretend it never really happened.

We were monsters of our own creation
We were always just a conversation away from being in love.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Unstrapped.




When I was still young I used to think
A person’s underwear said a lot about them
So when I heard her crying later that night
Over how she hadn’t had sex in three weeks
I didn’t understand how and why
All her bras were white.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Dimensions.


So. It's very nearly Saturday night and I'm going to spend it in the library.
Spending a night in the library already?
Just till midnight. They won't let me stay beyond that.
And what then, when you're walking to your room?
Then nothing. I have my music and the night air.
You should be holding someone's hand.
I should be?
You could be. I freak out just thinking about it.

Friday, September 10, 2010

In my dreams, he comes to me.

1.

When you paint your face in the morning, remember it is attached to the rest of your body.


2.

It was late at night, and I was tired of being alone in your city so I stole my uncle’s car and set out to find you.
But you don’t even know where I live!
I know what sector, the rest didn’t matter.
You’ll never find me.
I drove around till I did. In just one of the streets, there were armed policemen who wouldn’t let me through.
Policemen remind you of me?
Barriers do.



3.

When I meet you in my dreams, it is a stranger’s face I see,
A stranger’s hands with your thumb nails..
He sits across the glass table, his legs at ease
He doesn’t speak though the darkness between us
And around us, your unnerving stare lights up his pale face,
Your unsmiling smile lurks in the corner of his eyes.
He asks the same questions, how my day has been?
Have I found someone new? Can he touch my hair?
And like with you I fold my carefully designed reasons
Into an origami crane, a paper lily, a cat in the hat,
Kiss your forehead, not his lips, and leave.


4.

Want to know where I live?
Yes, please.
In Y-Block.
Where in Y-block?
You’ll know where as soon as you see my balcony.
Oh come on.
When you’re tired of being alone, steal a car and drive around late one night. When you’re tired of being alone, come find me.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

I must have died alone.. a long, long time ago.

Perhaps the only reason why I have loved him so achingly is because I have hated myself for so long.

Friday, August 20, 2010

Not even for a day.

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep..


Prelude. Nostalgia. Yanni's violin weeps like stones on riverbeds and rain on crumbling mud huts.

We can't watch movies in Ramadan?
Preferably not.
Because God isn't into Hollywood?
Because Hollywood isn't into God.


The rain outside gets faster and faster as I sit and decide whether or not it's safe for me to tell you much I miss you. The rain outside gets suddenly angry and I think about why this has to be so hard. Why you can't be like all those other boys who want to save up to buy all the wrong presents, want stolen phone calls and more than just promises of a lifetime together. I think of what she said to me as we lay on the floor thinking about all the choices we made, some good, mostly bad. "All the mistakes I've ever made fall into a vicious pattern, like a morbid Fibonacci series. We do this to ourselves, don't we? We pick up the most jagged stones and rub our hearts against them, because easy will never be good enough for us."

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.


What is marriage to you?
A promise. A promise of valuing someone's safety and happiness and health above your own. It's a promise of keeping someone's deams alove and wanting to build their dreams with them.
By your standards, we're already married.


You place your head in my lap and tell me how your parents got married.

Perhaps I was wrong. Love is that promise. Marriage is the realisation of that promise, service and sacrifice in the name of it.

Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?


I cried for hours on end on the night you died. I ushered you back. You came as a ghost, present but vacant. Like a marriage with someone you would give up the world for but who can never love you back the way you want to. I wished upon you another death. Talking to you this way is harder than not talking to you at all.


I retract conversations we've had, smell the words that were. I hear stories of guys who get jealous because their lovers take pictures with their guy friends and they hurt me. Sometimes, I nearly wish it was easier for me to deal with your disappearances and absences without cause or reason. Sometimes, I nearly wish this love was a little ordinary.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

In the Ivy.


You leave me every time you say my name like that.

Don't be coy, you never stop me.

I have faith in you.

I'm beyond the stage where I protest to that statement.


 

Sometimes I almost wonder as to why I leave you just to come back again. Why I drown your light out, cause you the hurt I think- almost wistfully hope- I cause you? Sometimes I think I do it to protect you from myself while you pray to be my victim every time. I protect you from things that are worse than seeing me walk away, like seeing me in defeated insanity.

         **            **

You sit on your roof top a little before sun-down. Your sun is somewhere towards your back behind the water tanker and the mountains and piles of grey clouds. You know it will rain soon because of the colour of the sky, the way the air smells. Your sister sits five feet away from you and asks you what you're doing. You open a creamy pack of Davidoff lights and hold the lighter close to you. Your brother appears from between the water tanker, sun and mountains and you snub out your freshly lit cigarette. You wait for him to go, the sky breaks into a drizzle. Your sister runs for cover. You light a fresh cigarette and guard it with your hands. The sky breaks into stormy torrents, pelting the back of your neck, the hair at your nape, the skin on your back under your black oversized shirt. A red shawl lies on the cement, caught between wind and water. You inhale; hold it in for a little too long. The wind blows your exhaled smoke towards the mountains in which people die on misty mornings in unguided flights. Water dripping from you like blood, you walk to your sister and hand her your umbrella and laugh. 'It's raining,' you explain.

         **            **

You're in the clouds and everyone is singing. One of them strums the bittersweet strings of a guitar. You throw stones into the distance and celebrate if yours goes the farthest.

Without you I cannot confide in anything

The hope is pale designed in light of dreams you bring..

It runs in me, your poison seething through my veins,

This skin is old and stained by late September rains…

Sometimes, their voices seem to travel through time and space and other dimensions, whirring as they pass through each, fading out in comparison, coming to you as a ghost in a moment of divine revelation. Your mind forms an image of a familiar face and then it is lost. There is a waterfall somewhere and you walk through the jungle madness to the sound of it. To the sound of a promise that it will all be over soon.

I'll take you down the only road I've been down

You know the one that takes you to the places where all the veins meet…

They look into your eyes as they sing a lyric full of love. It comes to you as a ghost and then it is lost. You are lost, but you smile through it. It's so much easier to pretend in the darkness.


         **            **


You scream for attention, pace your room in thirst and helplessness before you return. You don't understand what happened, or how it happened, or why. In people's thoughts and conversation, you find a way to blame yourself for all the mess you see around. You read blue words full of loving and wonder if they were meant for you.


 


 

Thursday, June 24, 2010

I can write the saddest lines tonight..


The night wind turns in the sky and sings
I can write the saddest lines tonight
I loved her, sometimes she loved me too..


We've said goodbye too many times before, so there's no reason this should be any different.

He said the first time it hurt, the second time he thought it'd kill him, the third, he thought he'd kill himself so by now he was immune to the pain she caused him. They were a both a mess of their own kind and so deserved each other. He wrote her verses in Pushto, she sang to him in French. Neither understood the other but between them flew a harmony, the kind that unites a violin and a piano. They too were synced by a stranger's language which they wrote on blank paper, him always on white, her on scented cream, both in black ink. Sometimes when the letters reached her, they had been creased by a hundred fingers. His letters smelled of his cologne.
'I love you,' he said. She was too terrified to say anything.
'I love you,' she said. 'Thank you,' said he.
He wanted to kiss her but saw the tension in her jaw. Maybe she wasn't attracted to him after all. And why would she be? She was perfect to him.
She felt his breath on her face but she knew she must hold back because in her mind, insanity was allowed to one person at a time.
Caught between the right thing and what felt right. It's a miserable place to be in.
Today, again my heart calls out in desperate longing. Today, again, I distract it like a child.
How can I ever burn your letters? And how can I ever let go till I keep them?

On nights like these, I held her in my arms
I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too
How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes..


One day he was kissing her neck, her collar bones. The other, he talked about the pride and honour of women. Did all men want virgins who acted like sluts with them? Or was that an indicator on the expected longevity of their relationship(?).

She never understood what he meant when he said it made him want her more. Was that his sad excuse for not putting up a fight? For not telling her to keep away from all the other men who hovered by her elbow, for asking her every time who she was going out with when her answer would always be the same, for letting go each time? She respected the fact that he had a past that he could not change, and was proud, so proud of how far he had come from where they met. He talked about all these other women who had once mattered to him. It didn't matter. He said he wanted her jealous. And then one day she was.

He remembered the days of msn, the day he claimed he was his friend and she instantly took off her display picture. He remembered that as the moment he knew he was in love.

I can write the saddest lines tonight,
To think I don't have her, to feel I have lost her,
Hear the vast night, vaster without her
Lines fall on the soul, like dew on the grass
What does it matter that I could not keep her
The night is fractured and she is not with me
That is all.


I wish you could have seen me that night, after I told you to not wait and you said you wouldn't. I wish you could have seen me all those nights I said goodbye to you.
The first time a cigarette parted my lips. The first time I was up all night crying. My first visit to the shrink. My first decline into cyclical breakdown.
Do you think this is easy?

Each time, they got back, it was more heated, more intense. There was a new depth in conversation, new tenacity of grasp.

He sits and writes her a hundred letters, but he doesn't dare send them because she was the one who walked away.
She sits and writes him a hundred letters, but she doesn't send them because that wasn't curing the problems he refused to deal with. Surely true unhappiness was better than doubtful joy.

Maybe we just tell ourselves these stories to compartmentalize losses and lies. The truth, plain and simple, is they don't send those letters is because with they will dart back to each other and the cycle of boom and bust will then begin. And each successive time, it is harder to say goodbye.

Fragments of my soul live in you. Fragments of your soul live in me. And each time we walk away, fragments of us just die.

I don't love her, that's certain, but perhaps I love her,
Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long..

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Arcane clasps.


There are puddles of rain in my shoes.
I smile like my heart is aching.
If it's raining and cloudy in London, there's rain and cloud in my soul..

Little girl, little girl, why are you crying?

Adventures to random book stores.
You never did connect the dots so you never saw the monster I had become.
I think I love you.
..
I don't think, I think. I just do.
You sound just like me.

Possess me like a tune.
Pervade me like a musky scent.

There were songs in your soul from a past life. Songs I translated to remind you of someone else.
There's a mole on the lower right of his mouth which I must never know of.
There was a black and white girl with a huge smile on her face despite her sun burn. Little did she know. That's how stories start.
A little midnight oil, spring's first blossom, collection of water bottles with red caps. Later it's a cardboard box with a label on it.

Little girl, little girl, why are you crying?
Inside your restless soul, your heart is dying.

"I've been alone with you inside my mind
And in my dreams, I've kissed your lips a thousand times
I sometimes see you pass outside my door...
Hello.. is it me you're looking for?
I can see it in your eyes, I can see it in your smile
You're all I've ever wanted
And my arms are open wide
Because you know just what to say
And you know just what to do
And I want to tell you so much
I love you.."


When insanity became inspiration
Never before had I looked better. And never before had I felt worse.
How was it?
It sucked so much that I locked myself in my room and screamed till I thought the world would shatter and then sat by the river and smoked because I missed you.
Every expression my face is capable of right now.. the infinite sense of your most intense vibrant presence

It doesn't matter where you go, as long as you come back.
Who is that guy who walks you back?
A lot of people walk me back, who are you talking about?
A lot is not one, and one is dangerous.

Your broken Urdu broke my heart.

No rhyme, no heartbreak, no reason.
High treason, the man was a vegetable till he became a fascist.
What ghosts must haunt him in his grave.
The traces of blood follow you home
Like the mascara tears from your getaway.

It's a fire, she crooned.
It's a fire, fire, and I'm burning.

"I long to see the sunlight in your hair
And tell you time and time again how much I care
Sometimes I feel my heart will overflow
Hello, I've just got to let you know..
Because I wonder where you are
And I wonder what you do
Are you somewhere feeling lonely
Or is someone loving you?
Tell me how to win your heart
For I haven't got a clue
But let me start by saying I love you..."



Sometimes conversations come to me like grey strangers asking for directions, sometimes a part of a song. Sometimes on sheets of Egyptian cotton, ten little monkeys jumping on the bed..
You're the only friend I have. My night dawns with you and you know it.
I borrow words.
Say it to me, again and again and again.

Little one, little one, the sky is falling.

Do you know what missing you feels like?
It's the devastation of a moth as the candle it worshiped is snubbed out the moment it was about to give itself up.
Smoke whirls like a violin's tears, but no burn is visible.

Little girl, little girl, why are you crying?
I drift across the city in the rain till I find my way back home.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Another song for a broken heart.

By riversides we sat together, by benches with readers and lovers.
Sometimes you'd get up to paint on stray canvases.
My perfume on your sleeve.

"I want to put mehndi on my hands."
"I love mehndi. Put it on mine too."
"No."
"I went to this wedding and I almost touched the bride's hands to know what it's like."

You laughed.
"That's by far the most sophisticated puff I've ever seen. You take the sleaze out of smoking."
You never told me to stop, though you hated the way it tasted on my lips.

My ankles gave way as I tried to run on our track alone. I screamed at myself for even thinking of Twix when I had so easily let go of you.
On the edge of the bridge, I stood for an hour in the clawing rain, our rain.
"We don't say things most things because we don't want people to know we want to say them."
I wish you had said those things while there was still time.
"I think I should stop saying things which I don't want people to know but I want to say."
"Don't write to me in that tone. I can feel it."
"We know each other too well."
What undotted i's meant, why you would say Thank You with two capital letters, when there would be two fullstops after your name.
I can smell my city's soil in the rain tonight. Like a gladiator who is about to die does.
He looked at me with hollow eyes as I walked away.
I won't leave you, you promised.
I won't cut my hair, I promised.


The cruise we were meant to take when you'd come, the ship lay in distress. There would have been champagne and moonlight and the brush of your knee against mine.
Remember those acrylics I said I'd buy for you? The set of eighteen in the exquisite wooden box by Van Gogh's shadow, I had bought them already.

"You make people cry."
"I'd say I'm pretty good at it."
"I wrote a letter to you, sent it two weeks ago."
The only one who could make me cry for the right reasons.

I remember our last conversation.
"Your letter.. "
"I have no words tonight."
"I'm moving out in ten days."
"Where to?"
"I don't know."
"My phone will be permanently switched off."
You smoked with your eyes closed. There was a hurt in your words.
"I'm so, so sorry."
"Shhh... I love you."
I called out your name, for the very last time.
"Yes?"
"I love you."
"Stay with me for a while."
"Tell me you won't wait, because then I'd know I have nothing to come back to."
"I won't."
And we sat in silence, till we turned to vapour and dust, till we disappeared.

I wish you had fought with me for me.



Remember those blood kisses from long, long ago? I don't know what they meant then, don't know what they mean now.
The hours changed quickly, and moods, and people. Remember how he asked, what made me weep with him.
Ze mujnoon yum te may junoon ye.
Je rubab yum, te mein shehbaz yea.
Ze naghma yum, te mein saaz yea.
Ze parwana yum te may parvaaz ye.


I was the one who walked away, after I made you promise you wouldn't.
A set of new paints lay with fruit peels in the garbage.
I'm not coming back, love. I'm waiting for you to come back.



Saturday, April 24, 2010

Your faith was strong, but you needed proof..


And if I told you you weren't my first, would your kisses be as sweet?

Monday, April 19, 2010

"Lay beside me, tell me what they've done.."






You think I'm playing with you?
Darkness casts shadows in your eyes as you lose control. Your hands tremble, the blood rushes out of your face, your jaw forms a stern line. You don't touch me, because your hands are rough.
I don't know what to say. Why are you getting so upset?
Your breath is raspy, in short undulating waves. You hide your face because it has to be earned. You hide your thoughts because they can't be discerned. You shift topics and glances and faces with a clawed restlessness.
The distant makes us work. Distance.
Babe, don't say that.
The heart may burn in emptiness, but your waves erase my doubts. The tide erasing the footprints in sand of the shore of my heart. The city lights must have hidden the stars?
Talk to me about your doubts and I will talk to you of places with no lights.
You shift closer, interested again, giving me one last chance to make you remember why we're in it together.
Don't let my doubts obliterate you, while I still have you.
You keep your head on my lap and ask for another bedtime story. You hold my hands, kiss my knuckles. Demanding a closeness beyond what is physically possible. Everyday is a new battle to keep you from falling away, to keep you in love, to keep you together, to keep you mine.
What are you scared of?
Being faithless. Being absent. Being away. Leaving you unsatisfied, with questions and riddles. Not being enough for you.
I reach for your hair, stroke it, like a mother's love to her child, like a widow's promise to her husband's memory, like faith in a cause men die for in foreign lands.
Tell me you're happy and take me away with you.
The colour is slowly coming back to your face beneath my fingertips.
Let me tell you of a secret place.
Yes.
It's a small park called Kelsey Park. It was raining when I went there. The nice kind of rain, the kind you want to walk in barefoot, without an umbrella. Old black metallic gates open into a narrow road, along the sides of which grow pine trees. And random plants. When you walk through it, you hear tiny life.
And benches?
No benches.
Good.
Just a small walk where you hear birds and insects. About five minutes into the walk, you reach a junction where there's a circular path.
And then you laugh for no reason?
I smile, because laughing may break the spell. In the middle is a patch of manicured pansies and daffodils.
Flowers.
I cover your lips with my hands to stop you from talking. There are stars in your eyes.
Sometimes patches of sunlights fall on the yellow daffodils as they sway in the wind. You kneel by them, though you can smell them from a minute away.You get up and you walk around it, and you see a lake. It has more species of ducks than you can name. And swans.
You draw in your breath and you draw in mine.
Ducks who have marked their territory and will fight each other away. You have a bag of bread in your hands. Brown bread, because white isn't good for them.
A faint smile plays on the corner of your lips. I touch it with my fingers and for a moment, it is lost.
You break the bread in pieces and the ducks come to you. Their beaks shine with water from the lake and the rain.
You fed the ducks?
And yes, you feed the ducks. If the bread gets too soggy, it starts to sink and then they extend their necks into the water after it. I wanted to sit by the lake with you.
You kiss the inside of my palms, my wrists.
Don't stop.
The swans are a little arrogant, so they take their time coming. Their white feathers are set back in a sullen elegance. You walk along the lake, and you feed the ducks. There's a small bridge with a little black gate which makes your heart stop. It rains slightly heavily and you stand there. Directly below you is a little water fall. Tree branches droop into the lake and birds sit on them. The trees are bare completely. If you look carefully, they form veins on the sky. They're intertwined like the fingers of lovers.
God.
And you walk along, the people in the back blur out.
Children who're walking their dolls, children who're walking plastic dogs.
Old women with walking sticks.
With little black umbrellas and red coats.
I hate people.
Shh..
You're mad and obsessive and I think I just might be in love with you.
You walk past the bridge.
Slowly.
There are rows of cherry blossoms that are the first sign of early spring.
Their pink blossoms have something ethereal about them.
They form a canopy over your head.
So that the rain caresses each blossom before it touches your face.
You stop and you close your eyes and you take it all in.
You walk past and the canopy lasts for ten minutes.
No, it shouldn't end.
It ends.
You resign with a scowl.
You come out into a clearing.
And the bare trees are back.
In open fields.
Trees on which squirrels sit.
You take out a bag of peanuts and call out to them.
They come to you, two or three at a time.
Sometimes you drop a peanut just as they're approaching you because they look overzealous.
Often, they take it directly from your hands.
They're cheeky bastards.
They take a peanut and sink their teeth right into it, and come back for more.
They take another, run back a few paces and bury it into the ground.
And then they come back.
You walk past them, and there are squirrels in other places.
If I were you, I'd just lie there in hopes of forever.
And then there are pigeons.
Who're just flying around trying to steal whatever food you have.
They try to take the peanuts from the squirrels and the bread from the ducks. You ask a three-year-old to chase them.
They fly away and come back and it starts all over again.
You weren't alone?
No. I had my cousin's children with me but they were doing their own thing on the side where there's a play area for children.
So I was alone through all of this.
And overlooking this entire lake and cherry blossoms and bare trees and squirrels and ducks and pigeons, is a tiny place.
It's like a shelter, with a wooden bench.
And the water drips from the top as you look at this perfect picture.
And when I sat there, I thought of you.
We lay together that night, for such a long time, your breath was finally at peace.
I don't understand. Why are you so good to me?
Why are you such a comfort?
I'm so much dissolved in these whys.
Why me?
I mean, I have hurt you so much.
And still?


And Still.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Till death.

Smokes help him open his eyes in late evenings. He blows perfect rings on her face, knowing full well how she hates that.

It is noon for her and she rises from sleep. The world outside bathes in rampant sunshine. Yellow daffodils swaying on green, green grass against paper buildings. Someone's children run after stubborn pigeons they fly land away two steps away and the chase continues.

Through time and space and all the other more material things that separate them, he kisses her eyelids.
Are they tired of wakefulness? And lights?
He moves beside her in her bed and follows her breath with his eyes. She lies completely still as he kisses her forehead.

I hate lights. I went back to my village, and I loved the luminous black of the night.
She breathes as she looks at him, taking liberties with love. Free falling.
And the moon. Oh God.
She hears him talk because that seems to be what he wants.
He brings her black and white pictures from the place he calls home. His eyes tell stories of devastation and ruin and people who live those lives. What do you do with something that is broken beyond repair.
This milestone, I carved your name on it. And on this tree.
He kisses her ears and hold her close, close, close.

Do you want to be kissed? Do you like it? Don't be afraid, I will kiss you the way you want me to.
Transitivity or some other law dictated she be who he wanted her to be but she didn't know who or what that was. So she lay in silence, letting him break her with his words and his hands and.
Baby, don't be scared of me.
She touched his neck, the side of his face. Finally she spoke.
Tell me what it's like, every time you go.
The tension was in his hands and in her as they went through her.
It's an absence of life.

She held him, trying to take away whatever it was that broke him, trying to give him whatever it was he wanted, to be whoever he wanted her to be.
And he let her for a while. And then he asked her, the way he always did, to see how well she knew him.
Tell me what you see in this. And this. And this.
I feel related to your land.

Do you think I'm good?
I'm not fully convinced. Pass me the pictures. Let me see if you're any good..
He let go of the pictures and kissed her. Long and hard. And the way he wanted to.
Do you think I'm good?
Will you stop showing off already?

Saturday, March 20, 2010

A Jade Butterfly.

Some days, you give up on waiting for him to come back and leave the greys for purple, the red lingerie for black lace. You change your perfume, cut your hair short, get your new heels out.

He exists in his absences too and becomes the one relative point in your life. The yardstick you measure all other men against. So you stack him up in a cardboard box and leave it in a dusty attic and get away from it all. Perfect clothes and perfect hands and perfect feet stop mattering. You walk among the world, a stranger to yourself. You sit with your non-friends in tiny living rooms and smoke a single Davidoff, then two, then five. You progressively watch them get drunk together and proceed to end the night dancing to loud loud loud music.

And on nights like that, when you leave your guard down, some charming stranger comes to you with a smile, an offer to buy you a drink and a promise to treat you better.