Posts Tagged ‘ Love ’

Short Story: A Full Moon, Cigarette Scents And Tensioned Love

Listen to: Ólafur Arnalds – Fok

You grab my hand gently, point with my finger to the moon and say, “look.” I look, not at the moon but at you; startled. Your eyes, they sparkle for me. They’re too magical for a full moon to beat.

“You can hide the moon with your finger,” you tell me. “But it’s always there.”

You lean closer to kiss me, but I can’t let you. I stop you. “No,” I say. I look towards the moon and it is nowhere to be found.

“Look,” I took your hand and point at an empty sky. “It’s not always there.” Just like you, in a way. You leave and come, come and go, expecting me to always wait for you to shine at night. You’re as temporary as a full moon, but even then, it’s beautiful in a way — the pain you make me feel. Every time you come, leave, come, then leave again and in every instance of you leaving, I hope of your never return.

You lean closer till I can feel your breath on my skin. I look away, in search of a missing full moon. You place your hand on my cheek and turn my face towards you, gently like you always do.

“Do you feel that?” you whisper and the hair at the back of my head stands up.

“Yes,” I quiver.

“Love,” you say.

“Tension,” I counter.

“Love,” you insist.

“Tension,” I repeat.

“Tensioned love,” you waiver.

I do not bulge, “Tension.”

I take a step back, and you let me. You don’t pull me back like you gently would. “You’re right,” you utter, fixing your shirt while in search of a missing full moon. “It’s not always there.”

“Just like you,” I tell you.

You wonder why I could never love you.
I leave with the smell of your cigarettes mixed with my perfume embedded in my shirt. I can’t wash it, it’s all I have left of that night we could’ve never been. I can never wear it again, it’s all I have left of a night I never want to live again.

Sometimes I miss not you, but the thought of being cared for by you, others I stare helplessly at a moonless sky. It comforts me, because just like me, its moon has gone missing.

I call you in the middle of a hot summer night. “Is the moon shining where you are?” I ask in a faint voice. “Are you crazy?” you say with your sleepy tone. “Yes,” I admit. “I am crazy.”  “Go to sleep,” you tell me. “The moon is too big for both of us to care for.”

But I don’t love you. I couldn’t love you then, and I won’t love you now.

“Out of all that is symbolic, you chose the moon, and I hate you for it,” I cry out.  “That’s good,” you say and I hear a lighter in the background. “At least you feel something towards me.”

“Are you smoking?” I ask, trying to change the subject like I always do. “Don’t worry,” you gently laugh. “Scents don’t travel through phones yet.”

I do not reply, nor do I hang up. “Remember that shirt you wore that night?” you ask, trying to break my silence. “Which night?” I ask in oblivion.

“The night you said the sky is beautiful,” you point out with your trembling voice.  “I do,” I flinch at the sight of it hanging, untouched, in my closet.  “I saw a girl wearing the exact top the other day and I remembered you,” you let out a sigh, “If I could ever forget you, that is.” “I need to go now,” I interrupt you. “Let’s never talk again.”

I close the phone, run to my closet, grab my shirt and wash it.

Jack Gilbert: The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart

Seldom do poems leave me wanting more. If this had been a thousand pages long, I would’ve wanted more. “My love is a hundred pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what my body wants to say to your body.” My Lord, this is beauty in its most refined form. This will be my pillar of love; the melancholy of it, the void it leaves, just as love often does. I am speechless. Oh, my. My, oh, my.

The Forgotten Dialect Of The Heart

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not laguage but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.

At Night

Listen to: We Can’t Be Friends – Poor Colour Palette

A sun melting into a blue sea
Love; through hearts it seeps

Blue; the color of his eyes
Her heart; a war he could not fight

Tension escalating with fear
Silence, for they could no longer hear

Distance between them defied
Yet hearts can bear no lies

Winter escaping through tears
Moments treasured for years

Her lips curve a smile
His hopes rupture in denial

Emotions framed in veneers
No love, no heartbreak, nothing dear

Coldness puts out his fire
Killed was his desire

Thread of thought: What is pain?

Listen to: Eyes closed by Ludovico Einaudi

April 18th, 2012.

What is pain?

Pain is when there is no one to hold your head up as you hurl the contents of your stomach for the fifth time in an hour. When you become the prisoner of your body, intoxicated by thoughts of humanly freedom, yet bound to your bed, unable to move at will.

What is pain?

Pain is you. Pain is your body’s warmth going cold on mine. It is when you and I could be all we ever dreamed to be; instead, we built a wall of fear and past failures between us, high enough to reap through our hearts. Pain is your scent scattered across a city gone colorless after your departure. It is your eyes captured in pictures of us when we were happy. I could never see it as clearly as I do now. You are pain.

What is pain?

When you look at yourself in the mirror and see a reflection of a complete stranger staring back at you. When you feel like you are a stranger within your own body. Like your spirit is colonizing your body instead of peacefully filling it. When you feel hallow and empty, trying to fill a void that does not exist.

What is pain?

Pain is when you know what you are capable of, but never reach your full potential. Pain is when you see all that you can ever be, but always one step behind. It is when you look at your work, whether it’s a design, a poem, or a photograph and feel like it is missing that one special touch. And you endlessly search, edit, and repeatedly try to make it complete. Pain is the pursuit of perfection. Pain is your buried talent that everyone praises and believes in but you.

What is pain?

Pain is when I reach to my phone every night, dialling your number. Pain is when I am constantly reminded by you and how I failed you. Pain is when I seek love but never fully feel it. Pain is the inability to love again, to trust again, to be again. Pain is when I smile knowing that happiness will never be mine. Pain is when I am yet to forget your number. Pain is when I lose myself just to live, and what is a life without a soul?

What is pain?

Pain is unacquainted love.

What is pain?

When you take a risk for once and spend the rest of your life regretting it, wondering if it was worth it at all.

This is an experimental post. I will be updating this every now and then. This is me trying to discover what pain is, in my own terms.

Short story: A eulogy for love

Listen to: 183 Times – Greg Haines (click play)

I never understood why you always hummed while thinking. In lieu, I adapted your humming habits into mine and hummed whenever a thought crossed my mind. I remember when we fought, once. The first time; it was a silent war between two hearts that grew distant and apathetic. You just changed, and I changed accordingly. I always moulded into your behavior that I no longer had a specific identity but linked to yours. I think, now, that is why we’ve grown apart; we’ve become so similar that we put out the flair that bond us together like a mother bird teaching its little one how to fly.

You were my mentor, I assumed, and I learned though you never wanted to teach. I would tell you to teach me, and you would refuse. You’re too young, you’d say. Even as I grew older, my infantile nature never grew to you. I understood, I was always your baby, but I needed more than to be a child, I needed to grow old so you’d love me like I loved you. There’s an innocence in you, you’d often point out to me, I cannot disturb it. So you took off instead, eventually that is. We were always destined to fail, not because of my immaturity, but because your mentality and how you first perceived me.

But you see, I grew up along with you. We both did. You grew out of love, and I grew blinder in love with you. It is ironic now that I see it. I see no love, I see no passion. How so, though, when it was all I could feel; when it was all we could both feel? Or were you acting then, like you are now, once in warmth and now in coldness. This is not a love letter or a letter filled with regrets. This is nothing, just like you told me we were, nothing. This is a random stranger walking down a rainy street with no umbrella. This is a crazy gypsy dancing in front of a bonfire. This is a eulogy for love, because you killed it and I am yet to bury it. It has laid motionless at my doorstep for years and years, and I masked its stingy odour with the perfume you gave me till the last spray.

Our fight, yes, the subtle one. The one that tore us apart. It was a summery day, and then again, when does the sun not shine over those in love? You kissed my forehead not my lips, and I felt an ache, a headache from your kiss. You wore that shirt I always hated, the one with the graffiti you never liked. You had your fancy sunglasses on, and I swore for moment, you looked like a stranger from a distance. You waved at me like anyone would, and I smiled at you like no one ever could. You rode in your red car, the one you now pick up pretty girls in mini skirts in, and stopped, like a stranger would. You said, I will see you tonight. I nodded. You offered no ride back home, or to your heart where I belonged. I nodded again. You drove away before I could say I love you, like a stranger would.

Then you called later that evening, and I hated my ring-tone, but you loved it. So I kept it, for you, because you loved it. You told me you loved me in that sleepy voice of yours, and I was all dressed up to meet you. We were pretty together, as I recall. You in that black tux, and me in that white floral dress you liked. You never wore ties, you hated them. You always unbuttoned the first few buttons. You thought it was appealing to women, but not to me. You knew I never liked it, but you did it anyway. You asked if I loved you, and I said yes. You asked how much, I said I don’t know. You hummed. For years now, I wondered why you hummed when you did. If you were to love me like I loved you, shouldn’t there be no measures? We sat silent in that fancy restaurant. Even the music in your fancy red car could not silence our silent guns. But you, you had the last shot. I laid my weapon down and gave up to you, and you still fought back. I guess the only difference between you and I was that you fought for yourself, while I fought for us. That is how you killed love. You killed love because you never felt it. You killed love because you thought it was a war between us when it was only a gesture of eternity with each other. You killed it, but I let you. We’re both guilty, me for loving you, and you for letting me believe you loved me too.

Today, I let no love stand between myself and others. You made sure I would never speak of it the same, like I did when you first told me you loved me. Why would you though, if you were preparing for war? I have grown to despise those who speak of love as those it is attainable, as though it is the only thing that makes sense. When we said it to each other, it was the only thing that never made sense.

Emotional investments: A game of hearts.

Listen to: Brother – Road Hawgs. 

She is awakened by the trees hitting her window. She lays silent in bed, eyes open wide, and ponders.  She fears closing her eyes, for traces of unwanted shadows will haunt her. She slips into her white lace nightgown. She rises off her bed and gently places her tippy toes on the freezing floor. The wind is heaving stronger tonight. Perhaps it heaves for her. It is as though it summons her disrupted soul into a state of despair and welcomes it. It is cold; it is far too cold in her somnolent soul — Yet, this coldness of hers is her hearth. She is foolishly buoyant. How come, though, her body reacts with a mistaken cause of hypoxia? She tries to breathe. She closes her windows, opens her heart — and there, right there, right that second, she wishes she lived in a house of open windows and hearts wrapped in volute.

Emotional investments have always been my only weakness. I was never really good at business. I dropped the one economics high school-level course when I realized my risk calculating skills would land me in the streets. It was either that, or failing a course; little did I know that I practice this business thing in everyday life, not with money though, but with emotions. I rarely take risks. I rarely put myself out there. Sometimes, though, I lose grip of reality and gamble it all like a greedy businessman whose stocks went up.

Yet I fail.

The thing about emotional investments and I has always rattled me. Here I am, as none business-like as they come, risking my most valuable possession and offering it cold turkey to others. And yes, I may have failed once before, but the burden was not mine to carry, yet I embraced it with open arms and lived with aching regrets and forlorn.

But I do fail.

There I go again, building walls and walls of distance and apathy. I thought I was immune to such foolishness, to such madness, to such insanity, to such idiocy. But really, who is anyway? So let’s play a game – a game of hearts. Let us assume, and I hate to assume, that these hearts are really ours to give, fill, throw away, and rupture. Let us assume we have three lives that are prolonged with magical red and blue potions. Let us sit on a poker table and face our biggest worries of commitment and broken promises. Let us bid our highest hopes on a set of diamonds and spades. Would we proffer it all; would we go all in or all out? Have we really reached a point where we’d trade organs for tacit emotions?

And I do, I do, and do fail.

She walks into a bar full of skilled poker players wearing her lucky red lipstick. She takes the middle seat. All eyes on her, the dealer distributes the cards. She nods and one other player folds. The dealer distributes again. She nods, nods, and just when she gets a full house, she folds.

Short Story: Her words were not her.

Listen to: Together we will live forever. 

Entry | 3:45 p.m. | Across the street from Au Petit Fer a Cheval. | Paris.

There she sat on table 5, wearing a peachy floral dress, white sandals, and a bag with a seagull pin, just as she wrote she would. Her golden hair French braided to the left, not right, left. Oh, and those big red geeky glasses she always writes of. Yes, her, it is her sitting on table 5, with her blue journal; with the single spaced, grey lined pages. I wonder what she writes of me in it, she always had a way in her words; a way that kept me wanting more, but never getting anything at all. Is there a heart on the side of every page, just like she described.

Around her a group of friends, loud, disturbing, laughing, joking, two males, three females; one blonde, two brunettes; often she wrote to me how much loud noises distressed her, but she seems to have reached her hidden world, the one she always kept away from me. She almost led me to the door once, and as I begged to enter her world of mystery, her words faded into sleep. We never spoke of that day again, though I tried.

The waiter is approaching her. Ah, yes. Let her turn her face, for I have dreamed of those big hazel eyes every time I read her words. She never liked her big eyes, she wrote they are too big for her soft face, and feel awkward. Then, when I wrote back asking what awkward meant, her words chuckled. An old fashioned man, she called me, just the way she likes them.

The waiter seems to be almost of her age. She leans her head just a little, just a little, and cracks a saintly smile. It appears he asked for her order or some sort, she shook her head gently and turned her head swiftly to her journal. I am intrigued to know what is in that journal, she wrote I could peak in if I had come, and I have come to read. I do not know if I am intrigued enough to hear her voice, not yet anyway. She wrote to me once, asking to hear my voice, I refused. I could not bear letting go of her words. They captivated me in an odd way. I never understood why, but as she sat there today, across the street from where I stood, at 4 p.m., I felt some sort of energy pull me away from her. It was as though her angels have sensed my devils and protected her from me. I am a sinner, I wrote to her that, I told her that, but she never took consideration of it. I wrote to her once:


I am nothing but a sinner. You need not a man of my sort in your way. Do take care of yourself when in presence of a man with my sins, for they have overcome me.


It took her a while to reply back. I thought my words scared her away. They had not. She was, as she wrote, hesitant to express how hilarious my letter was.  So she wrote:

Dear you,

A foolish sinner is one who does not admit to his sins. I have laughed in life no more than this. Sinners color reality, which color do you use?


I longed for the italicized, un-capitalized t at the end of her letters. She fascinated italicizing words she thought mattered, but to her, all words matter. I wonder; is she italicizing any of her words now?

I fear meeting her. I fear that mask of words will fade and turn into pointless giggles. I know her emotions towards me are sound, and I have warned her I am not a man of love, or whatever they name it these forsaken times. She promised she would not let her heart fall for a heartless man, ‘for it is far worse than suicide’.

I light another cigarette. She cannot withstand my smoking habits, yet she withstands the rest of me. Ironic, isn’t? If it were the smokes that stood between us, I would have quit long ago. She does not understand. Such a child she is; a judgmental one. What does she know of smoking if she had never tried it?

I am late to our proposed meeting. I do not want her to see me. I do not want to interact with her. I want to observe her while she writes. I want to experience her words through my eyes. I want to see the movement of her hand as she wrote her Js, her Ys, her italicized, un-capitalized t.

I leave at 4:00 p.m.

Then she writes to me,

Dear you,

I have waited as promised. I wore my peachy floral dress, the one I told you about. I did my hair you pleased. I sat on table 5 as you asked, next to the window. You did not show. Why have you failed me, a man of words and promises never fails. I need an explanation. My feelings are hurt. Do tell me why a man of your sort would not show as promised.


She would not hear of me again. More often than ever, I see her desperately waiting in table 5, growing more frantic each day. I told her, she would not listen. A child of her sort could not, and would not understand. Her hopes are immature, she will grow someday. She must grow someday. She must.

I told her not to trust a man of my sort. She would not listen. She would not listen. I am not to blame.