Poetry

I miss the things I can't explain,
like 'chiquitito'
in the way you'd say.
And I know how to make
me go insane
by looking for tickets on the cheapest plane,
skipping the better seats for those to LA,
or folding sentences of genuine pain,
thinking of how to send envelopes
with dried flowers and long letters
across the ocean, all the way from Spain.

I guess it will be my bane,
viewing that picture of you by the coast.
Livid, for those things are my only hope to cope.
They are my rope of lasting efforts and active love,
but not strong enough
to tie a knot around what I can't explain.
Like watching cities from above,
or wiping tears in the pouring rain.
Like the scent of your sweater
wearing off too fast.
Not to be replicated, eternally awaited,
a guilty pleasure,
not to be bottled up or built to last.
And It makes me stay up past
my bedtime
to finish your poem.

So, please call me 'chiquitito' every so often
and let me enjoy the unknown.
Because, for a moment, it makes my heart soften
and forget that I'm grown.

Imagine if
we went to Oxford on an autumn day.
Imagine studying history, while the orange leaves curl away.
Imagine opening your umbrella to go and see
if we should get a coffee
on the corner of the street.
Imagine if I wore glasses,
or made jokes about certain things.
Imagine being birds, imagine having wings.
Imagine thinking about every moment, every night.
Imagine playing the violin,
imagine speaking music, unable to write.
Imagine the instant where two sides
of a coin meet.
Imagine the difference making a difference for once.
Imagine logic flying out the window, slammed open to release
your bedridden dove, who'd been plotting to flee.
Imagine you and me, split between a distance
and the meaning of love.
For we're not made for our eyes, or made to be judged.
And we are not made to disguise
our souls in apparel,
because to love,
to love means to rise to the bottom of the barrel,
it means to scrape truths from the depths of the heart.
So, imagine loving somebody
whose touch appreciates with every month apart.

Imagine now, loving in a hurry,
running lips before the clock ticks and the engines roar.
Imagine how frustrating, to figure out unpractical romance,
without the ability to drive door to door.
Imagine how aimless it can feel, when life's a chore.
But imagine me, believing in a chance, to the core.
Imagine giving your gut the wheel, to take a breath,
and imagine that one day we'll be together, for real,
with an empty tank and nothing left.

When we move, where do we go?
Or more like,
what do I do, when I don't know?
Will I grow and undergo,
or give it all away,
for a quick change back-stage,
swapping half my dreams for pay?

It might start any day,
for you are see-through,
you who
wants to know the city by heart
like a divorced spouse, all knowing,
yet growing apart.
Like an unwanted stranger invited to one's house.
There to sell art by touch, without fingers
and with the lights out.

And you might see,
why people trust the things they doubt.
Why they burn maps with little flames,
instead of changing their routes.
Why they don't say hi on the street,
why they shake hands by name
to make interactions complete.
So, I will try to do a good deed
for a city that doesn't give a damn about me,
and after, I'll pull myself under the rug, down below.
So city, if you know who I am, then tell me,
when we move, where do we go?

Watch the wing
and leave behind a dozen or more
memories to weep to,
memories to tell,
to scream
into clenched pillows,
rolling on the wooden floor.
And, watch the wing to see
where your love was stored,
where your key was thrown,
where we missed each other
before missing the sea.
Where you sat next to me on the Barcelona beach,
discussing airplane movies, the strong UV
and the flight back home,
so soft spoken, scored by foam, and asking
if I could please, please, please, scratch your knee.

And I know, you wish to never be alone,
for you hate what you see
when you watch the wing.
I know you forget to smile
about all it brings, and the things
you have to leave behind
in countries that keep our young hearts confined.
Countries where you have to love yourself, before I do,
and buckle to pull through a period outlined
by phone calls that sting and stir your absent mind.
I know we live without, to love within,
I know how lucky we are, I know what time is like,
and I know what it means
to cry and watch the wing

Another night, hovering under the sheets of the sea,
in fetal position,
to warm my missing bones.
Another night to wash my aching body,
tucked in and awakened
by the ebb and flow.
Another night, where my back gets carved and rounded
by the polished stones,
by our hand-picked pebbles
that we used to throw.

And these sea sheets know
what has left.
Why I want to sleep in embrace,
why I want to feel at ease,
in a world of silence and stress.
They know why I whisper
when I say that I prefer my waters gray.
They know why I opt to be alone,
in almost any case.
Or why I chase the gaze of a more loving sea,
why I dream to lift my head
above these wailing sheets.

So, tonight is another night where they'll do their best
to love me without a heartbeat
or rhythm to their flesh and breath.
These sea sheets will try to replicate
the way you sleep
and the way I rest.

Give me a figure of how far grief digs in your heart
and I'll tell you that this is us.
Us, as in, speaking the language of touch,
while pulling through crowds.
As in, stumbling Dutch
reading my homework out loud.
This is us, as in,
a cup of warm rice
to make your belly sound,
or giving me your last slice,
calling things our secret place,
or accurately guessing the taxi price
and luggage weight by the pound.
Like throwing tiny rocks on random people
and grinning in unison while the waves break.
This is us, as in, nightly scratches on your skin,
and hot countries with high prices, for no reason at all.
Us, as in, forgetting to be thin,
or falling from the stairs,
that didn't seem so steep.
Like combing your wet hair
and having no issue falling asleep.
This is us,
or what we are supposed to be.
Hating airports and getting bit up on the beach,
for we know the worst of goodbyes,
and the best of both worlds.
We know why we hurt for love,
and cut like a double edged sword.
We know why we cry and why we cuss.
We know, because in the end, this is us.

Paint me a portrait of the you within.
The things that shiver
along your olive skin.
Or,
whisper all the things
that make you tick and
scream away
the fragile void
that came to play
with your beating heart.

She, who had a running start,
yet, along the way
fell apart.
He, who would rather stay
in the cupboard
then lay
with a mouth full of dust.

Those, who refuse to speak out or speak up
the promises once uttered.
Those that meddled in their stomach,
too mad to declutter
some painful hope.

Me, or us for that fact,
welding back the chain,
because somehow we are a little sad
it broke
and slacked the strain.

The sun just about peaks through
and smiles at me, warm gaze,
hardening in such a way
that I can almost hear the beeps,
curing light, setting the glue that keeps
my current self stuck to this chair.
Stuck like on the saddle of my bike
when I fly past on a brisk cricket night.
Or the resin that made me close my eyes,
sunken and sewed in your seat,
freezing senses, the smell of your hair,
the constant flow of air, fighting the heat.

I suppose I use glue, resin and rivets
to keep me where I want to be.
Like sitting in your car for six hours
or laying in bed with earbuds,
thinking about you and me,
while essentially,
I would like to run through fields with clawless paws
and I know the bugs will shudder their scissor jaws,
especially if I would sit with them or roll through
the tall grass near my house, glued to you.

But, as I sit in the sun, a thought starts to brew;
I'll see you soon, in unknown places,
that I'll later reflect on and write.
So for now, I would like to linger longer
and stay stuck to your traces,
maybe for a few more hours before the glue unsticks
and you take flight.