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The other one

Her reflection glooms late in the morning and early afternoons of long summer days in England. Like a dark cloud, her existence rains over me, showers my wisdom away.  I was wise...I think. 
When I look at her, when everybody looks at her, she is the perfect imperfection. She is the shining light in the lambs eye, the glistening of tiny waves in a vast calm sea. She is beauty.  Her reflection darkens around me in the gloomy wake of my soul. It shadows my insides like there is nothing left. I am the walking dead. 
She is beautiful. I hate beautiful. But yet, I love her, I resign to my fated collision with her. I am her's, belonging, praying, kneeling at her ruthless beauty. The more I try to escape it, the more she enters me and shadows me.  I have no wisdom, no talent, no love left. 
Her beauty rains over me, showers me away.
Recent posts

Casual thoughts of someone raised in grappa

Is it comfort I find in glittering glass filled with potions? Or is it a distorted idea of inspiration?
The sparkling and squeaking of clean bottles on the shelf. All filled with colour and shimmer.
I am no alcoholic.
Only a writer, whose muse sometimes is clicking bottles, glasses and mixers. Whose eternally drunken eyes can see, in a glass bottle, the sand it was made from. A writer who, eternally drunk or high on something beyond life, sees colours and patterns that no hand nor nature can ever make.
And I see beyond, the grapes and redcurrants that have been pressed, the barrels, the heat, the sweat that goes into a bottle, filled with liquid.

I am just, sitting at a bar in Covent Garden called Cafe Murano, I have had a cappuccino, a gin and tonic and something unknown that tastes like a subtle, very subtle red grappa. Stubbornly making someone wait for me while I wonder at this lovely but unplanned bar simply because I can. I have a fever and I don't know, if it's that tal…

The Prospect of Being Happy

I'm on medication that will make me myself again. The doctor said. But I
Don't know who to expect
to see
in the small mirror on top of my dresser
Decorated
with polaroids of my best friend and I.
These medications,
Will make me myself again
The self I was
Before the illness started.
A self too young
To even have friends.
When I'm okay again,
will I still be a writer?
When I'm okay again
will I... really... Be ok?

Love

You see me. In front of you I shed my perfectly sensitive skin scale by scale and lay skinless. My bones crumble away like chunks of shortbread and I resemble something of a puddle with a heart shaped brain pulsing against your skin.
You're a constant, a body of concrete, a dish with a hole the shape of me.
I want to evaporate into your chest.

The Last Return

Sadness.
The colour of honey in his eyes now comes with a bitter tinge of sadness.
How could the universe allow his heart to bear the pains of this world when the pink blush on his cheekbones tells me he still possesses the pure and delicate love the rest of us left behind in our distant childhoods, or maybe never had.
I want his sadness to leave his face and come into mine. If that means his love can stay in the light that sheds from his honey coloured eye.
Sadness.
The red muscle pumping blood in my chest, the colour of a puzzle of missing pieces. He, everyday further from my reach, and another missing piece falls into place.
How strange it is, to create, a whole puzzle that is not there. How strange it is that because of his missing, there isn't even a there anymore.

He sits silently, looking at his feet. I swing as if the sadness falling upon us is not a big elephant in the park. But we know it is. Because his eyes become darkened when he says: "Really, I'm fine"…

In response to F.

There's wounds inside my head, stamped deep into the grey folds of my brain. Love cannot heal me.

Detached, distrusting, disillusioned, we are reduced. Perfect bodies that will rot like everything else, we are, just empty images of ourselves. You call it love, but it's just sex.

I heard love scream through the night. I heard it claim innocence in the morning because "love is a fire that cannot be contained." You wouldn't be justifying it, if we just called it sex. These bruises fading on loves skin can never fade in the flow of my veins.

I have felt love touch my skin and kiss the nape of my neck with such gentle and wanting hands. Just sex.
I do not believe love will ever lick my wounds clean and hold my hand tight enough that I will not be able to leave.

I do not believe love can wrap me in good thoughts and rays of sunshine bright enough to grow summer flowers.
I have seen love...

Love settled.
In a small town surrounded by everything love in her youth tried t…