Sept 27th

To be a poet is to be louder; bigger

Than men

.

Florbela Espanca

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Brunette

Unprepared to the bone, I was out of excuses

When she asked me out with a heartwarming smile

.

Not much hope for a relationship with someone 

Who prefers dogs to cats… Whose profound depths and sad beauty

Are as shallow as a plate of bland soup

.

Hold on, where am I? Still crying for Lily

Every week after almost six months?

After rereading words written in March,

Thinking of blue eyes and Lancashire…

Trips to Ireland and back,

Am I still in the same place? Am I lost?

.

.

.

My yes sounds like a shy

“Not really looking forward to that”

But I’m not in a good place to say no

To a brunette with good intentions

.

I’ve failed to justify and validate

My reasons to decline and stay home

Next Friday night at eight.

I’ve failed to listen to myself… We both know

I should book a flight tomorrow morning

.

ML

Incomplete

The best defense against hypocrisy is love

— Words written by the churchyard philosopher

Way before I finally came to Earth

.

I’ve been running out of reasons

And out of old books to read again;

Out of friends to give me new ones

On Sunday, my 24th…

I’ve always lacked the precious faith

In the unseen… The Omnipresent;

In realms above the two of us. 

I’ve walked home alone too many times,

Always back to unforgiving gods

.

For all my questions that remain unanswered;

For the unspoken words in our hypocrisy,

And every moment that lacks a reason to be:

My definition of love is incomplete

.

ML

Everydayness

​Walked home under a sky full of gray
— Midsummer sadness always brings heavy rain.
Walked slowly… No rush, not even a bit.
I wanted time to wonder if tomorrow is going to be
More of the same, as it always is
.

.

.
Fed the neighborhood cats, the stray and the wanderer;
Washed my hair…

(Listened to Sinatra while doing that)
Brushed out the curls, let it down. 

Saw my reflection and swore to myself
I could break a mirror or two, but I know
Everyone would say I’m still seventeen (nineteen on bad Mondays!). 
No lines or traces of sorrow,
Just dark circles and dry lips
.
Friday night, work tomorrow morning:
This shut-in stays home with a lot of free time
To indulge in nostalgia and old books,
Memories of ex-lovers and daydreams of future ones;
To ponder over this and that
And wish she could adopt those poor cats
.
Alone, always thinking
If tomorrow will be different.
Christ,
Too much thinking
Has always been the worst of my habits
.
ML

Pseudopoetic

​Eyes as empty spaces. Universes imploding —
Starless circles of chaos with dancing thoughts of you
.
A smile of love:
Red and heart shaped — I have
A blooming rose on my Cupid’s bow
.
Besides (re)finding The Smashing Pumpkins,
So far this year,
You’ve been the best thing to ever happen to me
.
I met a fool somewhere
Sometime ago.
You tell me…
Are we lost if we don’t know where to go?

.

​Eyes as empty spaces. Universes imploding —

Starless circles of chaos with dancing thoughts of us

.

ML

Black And Red

Ink in the crevices of my fingerprints,
Tiny paper cuts and reminiscences of unfinished letters —

Ripped off, forgotten… All the empty pages

Laying around the room, the one you never visited

.

I’ve always wanted to write you a second letter 

From here to Georgia, where love used to be, 

But in a lazy April evening everything was taken away

.

What words can carry at this point? There’s no one to read the old letters.

Pages rewritten over and over

In black and red; by pen and heart

.

ML

Months Ago

​I wanted to take her home again

To the little blue bedroom

With flowery bedsheets and white blinds.

I wanted to take her with me;

Wrap her cinnamon hair around my fingers —

Glance at her nudity 

But examine every single detail
.
Last time was full of regret…

Two minutes after, I felt alone in the house they once left
With someone breaking the silence

She was a speaking statue,

A proof of status — she had been mine. Still, she was

A well read memoir I didn’t want to keep

.
She didn’t ask to stay, but I forced her to leave anyway

With her bike and sad, random words. 

She knew way too well

How I was still mourning the dead that afternoon

.

To this day, 

She keeps coming back

With cinnamon and pallid lips I don’t want to kiss again. 

Lips that want to say words that need to be heard, 

But I don’t care… I never did.

I just shared my loneliness with you

And felt bad for both of us afterwards
.
ML

Past

I’m not the type who cries over and over

For finished things and words unsaid;

Not even for painful memories, not even those

.

.

.

He didn’t even close the door when he left — without a word, he walked away.

It stayed open,

But I’m not the type who walks back to the past. 

I leave doors shut

And my eyes open and dry, 

Perplexed and lying

.

ML