Posts Tagged ‘love’

wish you were here


i miss people that don’t deserve it.

I have to tell myself
that i shouldn’t feel anything,
– cold and amiss –
that they probably don’t miss me,
and never t think about me,
that they left me behind
and even wish
bad things on me.

i see their ghosts
and little evidences
of their passage
through my life

little scribbles
in books,
smiling pictures,
burned behind my eyelids,
sometimes my dreams.

and that touches
me deeply.

so, i miss them dearly
like one misses
the departed:

with moist eyes
and very dearly,
whishing them peace.




your lips hold more
than secrets,
they hold memories.

it’s too easy
to seek comfort
in the fire of an old love:

i fall for faces
like yours
all the time.

i always fall for your type.

i know
all of your kisses,
the curves and ridges
of your lips,
how tight are your hugs
and how your voice sounds
when you call my name
late into the night.

like a siren,
i hear your calling,
your sweet singing,
down I go,

“i know you love me, but you’re not in love with me”


and, as you leave,
i don’t know
how i should feel.

the sun rises,
the birds chirp
and the world starts spinning again

(as does my head)



my father
was a good christian
that loved saying:
not even the lord
was able to please everyone;
so you won’t be either.

his words resonate
to this day.

thus, it’s ok
if someone hates you, really.
we came to this world
for other things,
greater things
than petty people.

hear what i say:
there is
no need to try so hard
to please others;
to try so badly
to give love,
nor to yearn so hard
to be loved in return.

love doesn’t need to be so
fought for.

just follow your true north,
your heart,
-constant, steadfast
be your best self,
loosen your grip
and the right one
will slip right in.



don’t interpret
my resistance to change
as a refusal of the new,
of the good,
of the bright.

think of it
as a part of my character
in the likes of a boulder:
and unwavering.

all the lost things


all i wanted was for you to mark me. i wanted you to bare your teeth at me and bite me, bruise my skin in black and blue from my neck to my thighs, and my spine. i wanted you to have me whole, to claim me as some ancient thing from immemorial times. i wanted you to grab me, put your arms around me, encase me.
(i always liked your weight on me.)

i wanted you to write on me so i could tattoo over the words and keep you on me at all times, so i could always touch with my fingertips what i meant to you, all those sweet things – i wouldn’t even regret it after everything was over between us.
(it would inevitably be over.)

“would you want to look forever at it? for other people to see it? why would you want to have it? it was never meant to be!” you’d ask me [if we still spoke to one another]. you’d call me mad, for sure, and hopeless and strange.

but really, how could i mind? how worse can it be to show on the outside what i somehow still feel? how can words to the world be any worse than the thoughts i carry in my head everyday, then the memories everyone has in their souls?

(it’s not painful. here, look at all these poems i already made for you. it is a process.)

a tattoo, in the end, is just a picture: a remembrance of a thing that will always be, a past that was a promise of everything, something i want to show everyone because, wether it failed or not, wether you like it or not, talk about it or not, it is part of who i am. your past is my past.
(the threads of our lives are entwined. bygones are bygones, but it’s all a happy place now, a cozy home where we once lived in.)

i am not ashamed and neither should you be. i like who i am becoming, and you have a share in it. accept it.
(write to me. let’s talk.)

on my notebook


fleeting moments,
a fleeting thing.

i realize
you never left me
a single note
written by hand.

i don’t know
how your cursive looks,
i can’t even imagine
how it is displayed on paper.

not even on my birthday…
i didn’t get a card.
i got a smile
with watery eyes,
but not a little piece of paper i can cherish,
and keep in a box of beloved memories.

in fact
i think i have never
you physically write anything.

and that’s sad
really freaking sad,
because words
are my thing,
are the memories i can keep,
are the scribbles
i’d like
to safeguard forever,
maybe even tattoo on my skin.



our love lasted
for two hundred
and forty five
text messages,
traded pictures,
endless pining
on dark nights
and thirty-nine
undercover kisses.

long distance


you just keep saying
“as soon as I’m back,
I’ll come and see you”,
but what’s the good
in visiting
if you are never staying?

how long must a lover
make a bed
if no one’s ever laying in it?

how long must a lover
live alone;
always a one,
never a two?

tell me: how is it good
to live a fairy tale
of messages on your timeline,
and never – ever –
hold you in my arms
nor call you mine?



after a long period
of tranquil nights
i dreamed of you again.

i dreamed i kissed
the column of your neck,
and later,
your supple lips.

i didn’t wake up startled,
nor shaking;
not even angry.

i just rose from the bed
and started the coffee maker.
then i got dressed,
got on the bus to work etc.

however, throughout
the day
i couldn’t shake off
one single thing:
a phantom feeling
of your hand
holding mine.

(did you dream of me?
did you feel it too?)

weight in gold


i am sorry if it seems
like i never listen
or start conversations,
or if you feel my gifts
are consolations
for my absence.

i am bad at saying
what I mean;
baring my soul
and revealing my words
was never really my thing.

it’s all family heritage,
as are the rings
that adorn your fingers.
(as are the silent gestures
that you can’t seem to hear.)

i’ll cover your collarbones
in necklaces though,
as if you are goddess –
i’ll stud them with stones
for every word i keep in,
i promise.

i am sorry if i am a show-er
not a say-er.

you want love notes
and adoring quotes,
but i’ll give you platinum
until you look like an actress.

for i can’t help it
if i like how the silver
shines against your skin:

the image is akin
to the sliver
of light that enters our bedroom

when the night is quiet
and the air feels right,
in the rite of silence
that blesses our affair.