Trying to

Trying not to care anymore

At least not that much and not that openly

I am okay now if you don't text

Or call

Or mail

Usually...

I still end up crying at times

But I am trying hard not to let it matter

I know I can do it

I just need to keep on trying

Really hard

Till it doesn't matter anymore.

word...

​

Hurt...

Just thinking of how a pearl is formed...

When an oyster is injured, or when a foreign body enters its mantle, it secretes nacre and gradually, layer by layer, grows into a beautiful shiny pearl...

So in essence, the oyster transforms its hurt or pain into a thing of beauty...

And then I think of all the times when I hurt - perhaps because of you,

Or even in spite of you

And I feel that I have grown yet another layer to shield my heart

And perhaps one day it will be like a giant shining pearl

But all dead inside...

​

Lost...

Suddenly everything you do goes wrong

Everything you touch, crumbles and falls

What you are left with is the touch from last night
And memories from the streets you wandered together

Is this what the end's going to be like?

Is this where it all stops?

Happiness

We are never as significant as we imagine ourselves to be. Nor are we as insignificant.
We are terribly average human beings running behind unattainable dreams and a chance at happiness.
We attribute a lot of importance to that brief fleeting mirage-like idea of happiness.
But happiness stems from ignorance. Mostly...
The ignorance of where you stand in life. Or where you are not welcome. Or where you are not really needed... just considered as a freak show for temporary amusement...
Not being aware of reality is blissful. It's easier deluding yourself, telling yourself you are happy because of something. Because of someone.
Better to stay real. And perhaps even stay unhappy. At least there are no expectations. No aspirations.
The solution lies in extricating oneself as soon as possible from all delusions. Of waking up before nightmares begin.

Dreaming...

With my eyes open
And it's beautiful all around...

Happiness is...

Feeling beautiful just because he says I am! :-)

subject to approval

Some days I am just that bit alarmed by how much you matter to me....

And then I think of how much it will hurt if you left...

And then how everything feels calm and in turmoil at the same time when you are there

And then the deafening silence after a conversation ends...

Some days I celebrate each thing you said... not necessarily because they are nice things but just that I want to believe each word and just be... Happy
Some days I get into a rut thinking if I should really think this way about us... do we even have a future? Where are we going? What is to become of us?...

Some days I just want to let go and let you know - everything!

And other times, I want to hide each bit of you and especially how you make me feel -deep inside - like some selfish giant with his precious garden!

So I swing between two extremes...

Just thinking of you and wanting to be with you...
And sometimes just being scared of the whole idea of being able to touch you or talk to you... because what would I have left if I didn't even have that?

 

Because I'll do anything to make you happy!

Because right now, you make me happy!

I wish I could say this to you today...

You make me happy.

Perverse Pleasure

Reunion

BY CAROLYN FORCHÉ

Just as he changes himself, in the end eternity changes him. 
—Mallarmé

On the phonograph, the voice

of a woman already dead for three

decades, singing of a man

who could make her do anything.   

On the table, two fragile   

glasses of black wine,

a bottle wrapped in its towel.   

It is that room, the one

we took in every city, it is

as I remember: the bed, a block   

of moonlight and pillows.   

My fingernails, pecks of light   

on your thighs.

The stink of the fire escape.   

The wet butts of cigarettes   

you crushed one after another.   

How I watched the morning come   

as you slept, more my son   

than a man ten years older.   

How my breasts feel, years   

later, the tongues swishing   

in my dress, some yours, some   

left by other men.

Since then, I have always   

wakened first, I have learned   

to leave a bed without being   

seen and have stood

at the washbasins, wiping oil   

and salt from my skin,

staring at the cupped water   

in my two hands.

I have kept everything

you whispered to me then.

I can remember it now as I see you   

again, how much tenderness we could   

wedge between a stairwell   

and a police lock, or as it was,   

as it still is, in the voice

of a woman singing of a man

who could make her do anything.