Lost in London

I am in awe of how we flow, London, how seamlessly we once moved together, like the Thames river beneath your bridges. But I wish I were happier. I wish I weren't losing this much sleep.

I missed the right timing, and now my darling is lost, no longer with me.

I cry because this is my last attempt to show him the truth. I am nothing more than insecure. All of me, only insecure.

Nothing here matters anymore, my love. I'm losing it. Nothing makes sense. Leaving in the dead of night, I didn't even have any long term plans to weather this storm after all.

I asked for patience for no reason, and it comes to me as a threat. I don't know how to stop myself from saying too much. I'm not even sure anymore.

How am I to be sure you will be here for me? How can I trust you'll care for me like you did a long time ago?

The city watches, indifferent. And I am left waiting for an answer that may never come.

Let's just say what is in our will.

Once and for all.

We're done, it's not tragic, yet we're alike.

Autumn Trees

There is a sense of knowing, almost a kind of boredom, when there is only the presence of the one. A sense of comfort in knowing there is space for it all.

He speaks the words, not from his knowing but from his presence. It might be a sigh deep enough to let me know his space, and I sit with it silently.

There is peace, and it almost feels taken a bit too much for granted as we know it's temporary. And yet we sit.

The autumn leaves have given up and shed their residue on the back patio. Our gentle steps crush them unknowingly, yet we still watch our steps, heel down first, wide open toes ending last, so we may feel these last moments together.

In peace, in the dark. Take another breath and I will say I will make it up to you in the night. 

Finally, at last, here we are in the moment we once chose as our bodies burned in flames and as you said you said you would make it up to me. Peace. Finally.

You and me and these Autumn trees.

The Angel of Mexico City

The streets of Mexico City hummed with life as Maria wandered through La Condesa, her suitcase wheels clicking against the uneven pavement. She had come here running from nothing in particular, just the weight of expectation, the blur of routine back home.

She found a cafe with tables spilling onto the sidewalk and ordered coffee she couldn't properly pronounce. The waiter smiled anyway.

That's when she noticed him at the next table, an old man sketching in a worn notebook, his hands spotted with age and paint. He looked up, caught her staring, and instead of turning away, he slid his drawing across the gap between their tables.

It was her. Or someone like her. A figure with wings folded, sitting alone, waiting.

“You looked lost,” he said in accented English. “But also found.”

Maria laughed despite herself. “That doesn't make sense.”

“It doesn't have to.” He tapped the drawing, and my eyes followed his painted hands. “Some people are angels. Not the kind with bodies of light, but souls that carry the past forward into what's coming. They show up exactly when someone needs rescuing, even if that someone is themselves.”

She thought about arguing, but something in his words settled into the hollow space she'd been carrying. The waiter brought her coffee. The old man returned to his sketching. Nearby, street musicians started playing, and the melody seemed to know her somehow.

Maria realized she hadn't been lost at all. Everything she needed had been here, waiting in this vast and beautiful city, the kindness of strangers, the art on napkins, the music that felt like a memory. She had come to find discretion, to find herself, and instead found that she had always been found.

The old man finished his coffee and stood to leave. “The day always finds its muse,” he said, tucking his notebook under his arm. “And the muse always finds her way.”

He disappeared into the crowd, and Maria sat alone again. But not lonely. Never lonely. Not anymore.

Lover's Visa

Lover's Visa

Some connections are only written in time itself, a seasonal hello turned into a longing for a hello again. Then they say goodbye, and “maybe I will see you again”. 

He felt similar to a warmth under covers during chill mornings, a deep sleep, a sigh filled with misty unsaid words, and something savory and sweet at the end of the night. Now, nothing feels like home, and being the odd one out becomes a habit like before.  Lonely in my silence, there is not much to say or do, my body aches in pain as he reaches across the ocean to his destination, and life continues like the last many Decembers - no surprise, everything all the same. Tears only come at midnight and then it's the day yet all over again. 

He is loved the same way as before, only from far away. I tasted what love would be if we loved at the right time. Anguish and madness dance in my heart as time takes my pain away, my own created mental anguish. Only I can bear this or deflect it, and this is why I asked him to leave before I spoil his life. The inevitable truth of lovers loving too much from a distance, haunted by their pasts, seeing too much and knowing there are broken hearts and pieces that belong neither here nor there. 

Lovers should have special visas, I say, where their story is told to the lovers on border patrol who feel their love and give them a chance at being together, allowing entrance. After all, isn't love the most powerful of them all? We spend time fighting and separating families. If only in my perfect world, true love conquers all, and we support that love by giving these lovers a home to flourish and a place to start afresh. 

A chance.

I've loved you the most out of all my lovers. Not because you were my last, but because you made me finally start from home. I now see my journey, and though we walk on parallel roads, our fork curves might be unique, but we end up at the same place at the same time. And all the days finally come, here with you, a gift of presence and memory wrapped up in a bag of chips, coffee and cigarette breath, whisky clinks, fingers tangled up.

I needed what you couldn't give me. Grief born from what was never said, there in our sighs and silences, in our breath in arithmetic balance. There is much being said in our silence.

"What is it then?" He said.

"I think you should go." It's what She said, because it's all She had.

Maps of reconnection. A moment held in silence with them, and all the puzzle pieces of the story I expected in my head come clear and make their own sense. As though I was a fool all along to simply predict what could have been the true story. Yet again my brain knitted another web of cuddles with a new lover so I may be trapped in the softness and still gracious in my defeat.

You stupid fucking idiot, it takes strength to be gentle and kind, and I have used it all up for kinds like you. You fool. I'm the tried and failed fool.

All the love in this world is free, my love. All the hate is a sellout.

Unexplained laughter spoke many languages of our unique tongues and formed our own opinions, and like friends with free speech, we spoke our debates and navigated our rubrics and joined the party. You're my type of person, coated like me. I enjoy the waves. Stability is boring and chaos is amusing, has grief and makes life into a journey worth feeling.

I hesitated, and we fell apart as soon as I heard the words, your love was not a sure thing. I know now why I fell apart. A long list of things grew longer, and I spent my days apart and kept you out of my eyes, our love's desire.

I'm the remake of Terminator, took all that we had, left nothing except for this rust. Broke all the ones who made you lose your face and tried to make me flee.

A young mom quietly mourning a lost love, as my little boy starts to say he doesn't need me in small tasks, my lover does not need me in his larger ones.

It's a type of two-sided coin, pragmatic reality not belonging here nor there, yet no lesson learned through me or you. Our love is in paradise, no chance of coming back empty handed. I adore him, still in this moment and on. Even with oceans apart I adore him, and will continue to as I feel the first feeling of summer breeze to the winter chill. For when you left with sorrow, with our last kiss, we were not what we said, and it's alright, my love. No right or bright side of envy, only silly old me.

I will wait on the dark side, making the best of our distance, and of my lips to show you the truth, this pretty smile and belly laugh. I'm probably the loudest woman in my hometown when you're around.

Him

Him

Shattered, he stands, evident in his demeanor.

Loneliness, a potion for some souls, A sort that self-destructs its own innocence, Replacing it with a toxic thrill, a haunting sequence.

He consumes it, a dark abyss from within, As he ages, oblivious to his inner craters. He bleeds, engulfs pain into the novel, Mindlessly drifting along, in a thoughtless sprawl.

Sway

Within the domain of wisdom, teachings reveal, A naive companion to joy, so surreal. A waltz upon the rollercoaster's delight, Abundant in insight, a journey's light.

A path of mindfulness, graced by empathy, A portal agape, words’ obstruction set free. A mind expansive, like the boundless sea, Encompassing all light, untamed and free.

Barriers fade in this vast, open space, Where lessons sway in a rhythmic embrace. For in every stride, an untold tale, A naive guide to contentment, setting sail.