“Where are we going dad?”
“It’s a surprise. Hint: it’ll be fun.”
“I don’t like surprises, I never like them!”
“Yeah. I just want to go home.”
“Come on girls! It’s my weekend finally and you guys are already complaining?”
They both pout.
“Dad…why are we going out of state?”
“Turn the car! TURN THE FUCKING CAR DAD! NO! I SWEAR TO GOD I’LL CALL THE COPS!”
The other was too busy crying.
Perhaps from the trashy chai from Starbucks earlier.
I want to write poetry.
I just want to.
I need to.
My fingers itching to grasp my pencil, scratching words out and out and out to such a mediocre beauty.
Right now, this minute, this second, and second and millisecond,
I just want to write.
Instead of meaningless, completely meaningful, irrelevant, useless, brief conversational answers.
Which answer such idiotic, philosophical, beautiful, thinking questions.
I want to be a poet.
I don’t want to be a poet.
I want to be more and utterly more, overwhelmingly more than I can ever be.
I procrastinate my school work waiting under my hands that write.
I procrastinate never when it comes to the ruled paper I don’t follow.
And I’ve come to my comfort,
The one I seem to not have mastered,
Nor find talent in.
It was right here, This neverending wheat field that scratches at your hands and itches your ankles.
It was right here when I asked you a question.
When I asked a life changing question.
It was the time of your life; for mine too.
A love song seemed to have appeared in the past like the wheat swaying in that field.
“Did you fuck Rob?”
The wheat sways in love tinted glasses.
It’s dark ripples flowing down, slender handles, soft material wrapping all throughout. Specks dark throughout; carvings uniquely embroidered in. Light coloring and fluttering as a mask.
O dear, O dear!
This is my love indeed.
Her dark flowing hair, slender hands, soft skin. Her moles as if they were stars; uniquely hers. Light surrounding her all being.
O pain, O pain,
Please stop this muse.
Please stop this pain I feel!
Every glance, every feel, my body goes numb.
Unexplainable, irresistable pain shudders through my whole being.
Every night, I slowly inch away from her resting body but inevitably, she returns with her lengthy arms wrapping around me, tightening around me.
God, may she strangle me.
May God and her strangle me with her sharp, prickly, soft, ever so lovely hands.
Death relaxes my pounding heart.
Her being tightens around my heart, quirvering and shaking like scared prey.
O Dear,
You are the prettiest torture device man has created.
But I know how to reach a haven.
I know how to desert you.
I may act despicably,
But can’t you excuse me?
I simply must follow instinct: survival.
Distance.
Neglect.
And distance.
And distance once more.
And leave in silence.
Peaceful, challenging, easy, painful,
That was my escape.
We are tied together.
Red filling my mind and palm.
Together we are, with our red tinted glasses.
This is a bond that flows through our veins, Yours and mine.
Constantly flowing and coursing.
Overwhelmingly pumping like any attempt of severance.
We are dull.
Grey with any color of blood.
Death or not, Ill or not, This is the pact we’ve made.
Pacts are unbreakable, especially when you and I are the broken.
I believe it was fate.
Most likely the raindrops that poured down on us relentlessly.
The street was abandoned, and so was the sky for it was deserted of any colour.
The grey clouds smothering all rising stars, although there were something that shined brightly.
The bright sphere, a night light comforting me from behind the curtains of grey.
I was still, until the sky started waling,
And so I was objected to the cold water pattering down on my simple suit, simple shoes, simple tie.
Pattering,
Before pouring,
Before assaulting.
I ran to a thin little alleyway, peering out and observing the street,
All the business men continuing on with scowls, upper East women shrieking and running into the nearest shops, and a stranger freezing.
My eyes quickly focused on the frozen stranger,
For about two minutes they were still,
As if a statue.
Their head turned to the right, then the left as if contemplating before jumping out onto the middle of the road.
I flinched, I wanted to move and scold them,
But I wasn’t even able to murmur a curse.
My eyes drew dry as I didn’t miss a moment, even of blinking, as I watched the stranger slowly twirl.
She rose her hands and looked up at the grey sky, and I looked up too.
And the sky didn’t seem as grey as it did before.
I stared as she danced in the rain, And I started to stop noticing how the rain poured down on me, drenching my clothes.
I took a step forward, my eyes still on her as I notice her turn her head.
An umbrella was offered to her that night, and she accepted.
No words were exchanged during this silent, intimate moment.
I took another step, racing in the middle of the street before freezing, rain pouring down on me, my hair sticking to my skin as I watched her and another stranger walk down the abandoned street.
It was then, that I started to feel how heavy and drenched my clothes had become, and I felt every rain drop fall on my skin.
I felt.
I
I want
I want your voice to reach my ears.
I want your laugh.
I want to see your face.
For the first time.
I want to see how tall you are, not in the old photos.
The real you.
I want to hear your story.
I want YOU to tell me your story.
I want you to tell me anything, say anything.
I want to see your callused hands.
I want to see your nose, the one I might have.
I want to see the yellow undertone of the pale yet tan skin we share.
I want to hear your favorite song, Maybe if it wasn’t the one everyone tells me.
You like acting? Me too.
Is it because you happened to like it?
Or is it because you liked it?
The Beatles?
You know them?
And you played the guitar?
You’re cool. I tried to play it once.
Your favorite song by them is Michelle, right?
Right?
My favorite song is Michelle too.
Because you like it.
I heard you had the same hair colour as mine.
The ever-so-close-to-black brown.
I hope I don’t have that brown because of my father,
But because of you.
I want to see you.
For the first time.
I want to hear you.
For the first time.
I want to talk to you.
For the first time.
I want to meet you.
For the first time.
And I might become desperate,
And I might become insane,
And maybe I would dig you up from your grave.
But even that wouldn’t be possible.
Because you’re just too far away from me.
My grandmother always told me…
What has she told me?
I hope she told me stories of her youth.
Maybe her first love.
I hope she taught me how to cook, How to tell what’s ripe, what’s not, all the myths and fables that the country and communism will allow.
I wish she told me anything.
Anything with her voice.
Was it high pitched? Middle?
Was her voice low?
Raspy?
Was she a heavy smoker?
I bet she sounded as sweet as honey.
More soft than her calluses.
God I hope she’d tell me how she loves me.
Or loved me.
I hope she’d tell me stories of my mother.
And how she loves her too.
I hope she’d tell me anything.
Anything, because anything would be more than everything.
It’s been a while.
Since your dark thoughts, your dystopian realities, your crude remarks.
I miss it, truly.
I don’t know you, I doubt you care about me,
I’m not sure if this is healthy.. Let me confess,
If I saw that hand of yours that wrote the things that has been scribed, typed,
I would grab that hand and plant a thousand kisses, matching the words in your poetry.
This obsession…I forget about it for a while, thank god, but every time I enter this realm of a million words,
My mind is filled of you.
This is not a love letter, this is a letter for I need to get away from this desperation.
I need you full heartedly.
I want your words to whisper me to sleep.
My eyes will never rest until that hand of yours return to scribe,
My scribe.
Such suffocating fabric pressing against my lips…as I drag the sock off your foot, it instantly loses weight, almost floating as I return to the depths.
The child sleeps innocently as I hover above their body, slowly creeping up and I open my mouth, gasping their breaths into my grip, the bed getting lighter by the second, the imprint on the mattress showing no depth as I take their soul.
Their skin becoming ghostly pale, lips lifeless and chapped, their eyes, well….
It’s in the dead of the night, were their eyes closed?
My nails scrape down the colorful quilt monochrome by the shadows, my feet dragging on the wooden floor, my elbows bending as I drag my long chest, my torso churning, my legs scuttling as I return under the bed, shadow takes hold.
And as a door creaks open, the ghostly white lifted from weight, is it a sock or a soul?
