The Likelihood of Love

I wanted to write about you. Day after day I’d sit down and nothing but blankness would ensue. I was possessed by a fascination of unknown dimension.

I saw through your flaws. I was so sure of who you were. I think I was wrong, I’m not so easily so. Sure, some unpredictables make their way through my mind but not by so much. It almost seemed like this one variable I was never sure of. Every month I’d look back and remember how old conversations never felt the same as now. Every once in a while a different color blinked, it was like getting to know you differently.

Not completely new altogether but a little more uncovering made it seem like change. I was coveted with the unconsciousness of how I felt. Whatever it was, I felt it intensely, like anything I felt or did.

It was no surprise how I turned the image of you into an obsession. Something god-like, gold-like. You were the medium of my present.

It felt comfortable but never so. Open but not on all levels. Forbidden but enabled. Silent but filled. It was love, but not so much.

Oh I’m only on my first journeys on the exploration of your skin. Your veins hidden. Unmask yourself so the fascination of curiosity can be done with. If it goes beyond this, rationality will kill me for being so tender with my emotions.

Don’t go, not yet, please don’t.

On Memories

After 11pm everything seems like a blur.

Your name is a pixelated image on my screen, I don’t recognize the reason I dialed your number. I’m pretty sure of how desperate I will sound trying to mend something for too long a time, longer than the time I took to create it.

Our tree once a seed, once a prime, once flowering with cherry blossoms, is now only a pile of dirt, it is not even rotting or dying, it is far gone into oblivion. But I still remember.

The oath I once took, “this will not be the same as every other time,” no convince yourself, yes “you are different.” But it wasn’t, not at all. And the only string of differentiation was how you held so tightly, how you wouldn’t after years, forget the moments and memories. But time sweeps away not only dust but glow.

And it is hard to keep remembering the one thing everyone is trying to make you forget. Everyone else has moved on, you are just a child stuck in the intermittent stage of nothing. Still standing so clueless in the middle of your naive confusion, “was it not love?”

You are nothing but a plethora of intensity, you are not love.

Blinded by Reason

And as I sat there so aimlessly staring at the empty voids

I realized that the reason proliferated its way into existence,

That everything, from idea created, to end destroyed,

only made sense stemming from the idea of resisting resistance.

She stands, she rises, she falls, but throughout it all she screams,

“I believe in a God, and not necessarily in the religious sense,”

Everyone bewildered of her audacity, her absurdity it seems,

Made no sense at all to the audience, to the dumbfounded lens,

So she explains, in words of poetry, how she means what she meant,

And goes beyond the edges of reason, beyond the walls of imagination,

This is not an ideology to adapt to, it is not how far she has went,

It is the essence of all reasons, her final fall, her complete realization:

I believe in a God. But not only in the religious sense. I believe in a source, a beginning. Where everything sprouted from. A seed; I don’t believe in nihilist notions and I will not succumb to my desires. I believe in being a part of something greater; something beyond me. I believe in God, but it is not just that I worship, it’s that I believe. It is not blind obedience, I swear it only seems that way, it’s perfectly rational from my side.

I believe in God, how there’s a larger part of me that knows me better than I will ever know myself. Succumb to the power that does not stem from you; you are not that significant even if of divine stardust bones and golden-plated curiosity. You are a part. An insignificantly small one as well. And there is something beyond you who knows you beyond your knowledge. So how can giving in be blind?

It’s all rational from here.

I believe in reason. Provoking me. A defined purpose that I may not know of, but that doesn’t mean its not there. “Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.”

She finishes her rant, her poem, her belief,

Apparently the words don’t help her conceive,

Any idea to the audience, there is no relief,

But there is no walking out of this knowledge, she’ll never leave.

Ticks

It happened one day when I was overworked and overwhelmed with too many details and too many striking clock hands. And when I rested my elbow upon the rough grey surface of the table, I saw it. A surge. Moving me noticeably. This was not a hallucination. This was not my mind playing with my reality; a bending I was familiar to.

Voltage runs through bone marrow.

I remember continuously finding the energy between my hands. Fast movements, I was always a ball of glowing enigma. Something so mysterious yet so accurate. Movements so determined in defying the slowness of nature.

But this was different; it started without willingness. It came out of nowhere or rather the accumulation of everything. Like the leftover food that never seemed to go away, this motion struck me and left me hanging in constant movement for the following ninety minutes. Never stopping once, but never exhibiting any pattern.

Numbers to stretched apart, it felt like I was weaving in the most infinite of the larger infinity of a pattern who’s familiarity appeared so far into the numbers. But it must’ve been a pattern; this is a design, it doesn’t fall short or fall empty of being.

 

Ribs

Rib cage cracked open. The clouds pass through my bones. Lifeless formations of undiscovered patterns. Vulnerable to the sky. He becomes me, within me, two of one and one the same.
Ribs were meant to be broken by skies and hearts were meant to be melted by acid rain.
You struck me. Like the lilac flash of momentum, you struck you.
A magenta.
Veins throbbing. Arteries torn. Blood drained.
My biology is only of your metaphysics.

 

Tuned to Ache

I hear the tunes. My heart drops.

It is the familiar scent of a melody once experienced in your presence. The feeling of a memory not so long before but so distinct in feeling. The ache of every tune. I was tuned to ache. I was designed for destruction. I was cured to bleed again.

The wounds are not meant to heal; it is you who are meant to adapt to the bleeding and only through adaptation does the wound heal even though it never does.

The past pokes at our weaknesses. We are all stories of history; some more tragic, some closer to holocausts than higgs boson discoveries; but we are all a mixture of both.

We are the different flavors of pain. So distinct; so beautiful.

I was meant to be devastated by a tragedy and to wake in an alternative realm where the tragedy is only a word, a memory, a tune.

I was tuned to ache with the melody of the stories.

I was tuned to ache for the past.

I was tuned to ache for the longing of my presence for a momentary presence.

I was tuned to be.

Vulnerable to My Own

Stranger in black seeps through disguised by the darkness of my thoughts. My mind is so easily twisted by the words. I do not know. It may be the betrayal of my own thoughts. They tell me I am perfect. They tell me I am pure. But the blood suggests otherwise.

I squeal. The pain is double-sided with pleasure. I moan.

This was the first time being alone with you. Your charm makes me kneel closer to the ground, it makes me satisfied with being yours. Enslaved.

I’m haunted by your towering body. Are you watching my every move. I observe; do not observe me. I am a canvas of unwanted art-critiques. Do not look too deep within the fiber of my existence, the wounds proliferate.

You hold both hands and I cannot move beyond you. I was the one who seduced you then shrugged you away. Your inferiority complex was poked too deeply this one time.

I feel you within me. I hug your mind. Embrace every thought. Tug tighter at your sloping soul. I’m slipping through your self.

And we are one.

We really are.

You won’t leave me tonight. I will wake at two. You will still be haunting me then. Penetrating.

I am desecrating my own church. I am envying my own beauty. I am raping myself. And I don’t mind it as much as I thought I would.

Wincing in Silence

My mind is flooded with shrieks of pain; migraine.

Heart throbbing with memories; beats.

This is my everyday. This is my everyday. This is my everyday. I do not know what to do with feelings too oppressed. I cannot cry, I do not scream, and I’ll never tell you how I feel out of fear.

I do not know who I am. “Give me a God I can relate to.” Give me a church of sanctuary. Take me to the old swing set where I can remember how comfortable and unawkward feels like. When I was a child, I talked too much and thought too little and killed my feelings on the soccer field.

When I was younger, I was free of feeling.

I wish I can unscrew the workings of this perfect design. Tell me how I can rewind all of these aches. I do not want to feel. I’d rather be numb than feel the emptiness of betrayal. “I think I made you up inside my head,” but that doesn’t exempt you of the pain I make you cause.

A little older I discover my “tendencies.” My addiction to a culture of porn. My obsession with sadomasochism. And my liking of your soul.

I see your face. I wince. I want this feeling to go away, find my heart in another universe. This isn’t what I want or how I should be feeling.

I think too much and feel too little. I think too much of my too little of feeling. I feel too much.

Take me away should this be my hamartia, take me before the war, I’ve failed your too many battles.

Take me home. Then leave me hanging a couple of streets away.

Hug me and then walk away. This is how it feels to be rationally in love with you.

Midnight Hallucinations at Ten

My midnight thoughts come two hours too early.
My midnight thoughts are my normal state of being, I’d be alarmed if I got them at midnight or if they came too sorted out nature.
I don’t know how it feels to feel.

I caress your face; you flinch.
Your fingers crawl towards my hands; I hold back.

I stop you from moving towards me, I cannot let you be too close. I am addicted to the smell of your soul. I don’t think I like you but I am obsessed with your presence. It’s been so long since someone walked along the same lines. I’m intrigued by your lack of substance.

Hold yourself back, I am falling towards you. Gravity is not to be defied, if I were you, I’d hold back. I do not want another writer in my life.

I want to count the days with you, go on walks. Tell you why I felt so sad without returning to the thought of him. I want to explore so many layers of interest but I don’t want to go too fast.

Hold back the pace, don’t go too fast I will not keep up. I want to derive every pleasure from this moment. I want your evoked interest to remain. I want your stolen eye glances. I want your prohibited self.

Unmarked territory that is too divine for adultery. We cannot dance, the people are all around, but we can fuck. We can blend into the atmosphere of the deprived and lonely. I want to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I doubt you’d understand.

You will be the one placing me into the earth and then I won’t be.
We will be together for so long and then we won’t.
I’m afraid of knowing you all the same as I want to know you.

My fear surrounds every thought of you.
What am I even telling myself?
I tell myself you’re surreal.

Colors – Barcelona