Surfacing feelings

The heart mustn't stir
The tears must be locked away
The smile must stay there

Silent heat

Heavy beads of sweat
Like tired hot rain touching me
I walk carelessly

The truth

You think I'm funny
You think I'm original
Me, I'm just a shell

The African wave

Does the city melt
or do we drag it with us
as we liquefy?

The day after the rain

The new light widens
filling this room and my body
not my heart, it's gone

Waiting is better

Can't feel anything
But this warm melting inside
When I think of you

Surprise

The keys were waiting on the table, in front of the glass door; a sunny day, trying to burst in through the door, through every window, an exception to the month, with all its rain and cold clouds sweeping wind around. Voices from the street, children running to the park to play. An imminent sneeze signaling its intention in a tickle, flowers blooming strong in the garden, the grass, shining green and proud, behind the garden fence.

        The door opened, and closed behind him, letting itself be locked; a sigh, as his mind went over the tiny errands of the day: library, need to return book, try to find another; supermarket, need tomatoes, fruit juice, cereals for dad, milk; coffee shop, need a break from the house, from its shrinking hot walls. He turned. He stopped, his breath caught mid-air on his open lips. Somewhere, a missed heartbeat fell with a twinkle, like a silver spoon.

“I’ve brought you flowers”, her voice said, a smile emerging shyly. Her eyes, shining from the sun, sinking deep into his, reaching down to a spot he had covered carefully, locked away, tried to ignore. He took in the long curls of brown hair, the thinner face, pale lips, the strong shoulders decorated by the strap of a white top, her arms, her wiry hands clutching at the bunch of flowers, aquamarine polish on the nails. She stood in the middle of the garden, the shy smile widening as her eyes grew brighter.

“It’s so nice to see you”, she murmured, but he only saw her lips move as he took one step forward, or thought he had, then realized that his body too, was stuck mid-step, the keys carving into his hand. He tried again, and moved tentatively towards her. She stayed, for she had already taken a million first steps in his direction. He reached for the flowers, lightly touching her hands: they were cold, and his mouth started to bring this feeling into life.

“Cold hands, warm heart, hey?”, she anticipated, still smiling, still immobile. He took the flowers from her hands, looking at her all the while: this is the moment he had tried to avoid all these years, this is the plunge in a cold lake that turns into fire, wrapping me and burning my thoughts. The thing he had locked away in a tiny box, somewhere inside him, burst open, and melted in his veins. His eyes were shining, as blue as the ocean, as green as the forest; a smile mirrored hers.

“It’s…you are…”

“Here”, she finished. There was nothing else to say, when so much had been said in silence over the years. All the songs she had sent to him now were gathering in his head, lyrics in a whirlwind; he opened his mouth again:

“Thanks for the songs. They were lovely”, he whispered, caressing her face, letting the flowers fall lightly at their side, opening his arms to take in her warm body, breathing deeply, his eyes closed, holding her close to him to feel every curve, as she carefully let her arms embrace him, her hands on his back, moving slowly up, to his head, caressing his hair. The touch he had forgotten, but not quite.

Jane-austenism

So restless and stuck
Circles of desire and fear
Music as a wall

Heat

Drowsy days dragging
Tired bodies in the sun
Waiting for a dream