When you let go of another – when you feel free…

What do you do in a situation where your love of another is infringing on your love of self? Very recently, I found myself in the difficult position of fighting what became one last fight for someone/something that truly meant the world to me, but to whom it seemed I no longer meant very much at all.  Like so many nights before this one, I had found myself, belly-up,  pouring my heart out and turning out my lamp with with tears in my eyes. On that particular evening, I was lucky enough to actually get some sleep, but the experience … Continue reading When you let go of another – when you feel free…

That suspended moment in time …

From the songs I made my hymn to cure my loneliness and disguise my tears, condensed to them, I meet you at every corner of my thoughts, I get drunk every day more in your absence. I wish I was the perfect prosody to lose myself in your verses, then walking in your company, singing your melody on your skin that guides and takes me. I see you with my closed eyes, I feel you holding on to my memory, lewd, abrasive, temptation of my most secret desires and surprise myself with the fragments of thoughts united by emotions long … Continue reading That suspended moment in time …

My skin is singing for you, come listen to it…

As a sad goodbye song, my skin sings a simple refrain, low echoes,  begging for your touch, strumming on my pores like a wanderer without direction; come, travel on my curves, drink from my pleasure. How can I appease the desires of my flesh? The desire that ails me, a hunger that has no end, the thirst for staying alive, the meeting of tired mouths eating themselves to satiate the most intimate secrets, the insane gluttony to swallow life in its fullness; the love that satisfies the soul. The rhythmic prose sung by the voices of troubadours lost in love, just like … Continue reading My skin is singing for you, come listen to it…

He weaves words…

He weaves words into metaphors, a syllabic alchemist with stories dripping from his fingers forming puddles on pages, painting night skies and the gaps in-between the stars because he was carved from twilight with crescents in his palms from carrying time travel letters to lost months, galaxies entwined with his mind and stanzas falling cosmic into his hands mapping out lines until poetry soaks into his skin waiting for the sun to rise and all because the boy had moons for eyes. Continue reading He weaves words…

Intimacy…

Intimacy is your breath on my neck as we sleep. Intimacy is how you don’t make me apologize for the terribleness that is me. Intimacy is I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. Intimacy is Don’t be. Intimacy is the kisses that stamp ‘mine’ across my abdomen. Intimacy is thighs. Intimacy is beyond names and words and the veneer of civility. Intimacy is savagery. Intimacy is dark fairy tales, dark chocolate, candles. Intimacy is the wine and underwear. Intimacy is doing nothing with the days, but handling and dropping them with clumsy, irreverent hands. Intimacy is finding a place we fit. We fulfill intimacy. Intimacy … Continue reading Intimacy…

My emotions, so intense as a waterfall

I‘ve perpetually struggled with choosing between my heart and my head. While my emotions can be intense, overwhelming, and erratic at times, my logical, analytical, commonsensical brain is a voice of equal strength. So I’m constantly caught in the middle of an intense battle.  More and more, I’ve listened to the passion inside. I should probably explain — I am an artist. I don’t usually say this to people because it sounds paltry and flat compared to the inspiration, passion, and endless fountain of intense emotions that boil inside me that I feel the need to express and to release. Maybe it’s … Continue reading My emotions, so intense as a waterfall

Like black a horse…

Maybe it was the eyes, they are the windows of the soul, and perhaps he had a beautiful soul. And that is the reason why his eyes attract and betray, they called her to the bottom of a dark and palatable sea. Black eyes were so dark that they were so hard to know what to expect inside. Black eyes, she thought and loved them. They were stagnant, paralyzed, only the eyes and the sound of waves crashing in the rocks night, also black and sober, equally hard and old. They looked like they were salted-water as his dark face … Continue reading Like black a horse…