so close yet so far away, as the cliche saying goes, but you will never know how sweaty my palms get when our knees rub against each other as we sit in a group of people and all i can do is admire the way you engage in conversation your lips move to a rhythm that i long to feel on the back of my neck as you whisper sweet nothings
i’m in a trance, i’m in a daze and i can’t help but picture your face just centimeters away from mine tell me you see the signs too
when you gently place your hand on my shoulder, can you feel my body jump? when you look at me and simper, can you tell that i’ve forgotten how to breathe? there’s a room full of people but you’re the only one i see and why do i keep on saying these cliche things? whenever you speak, i hear angels sing..? or something like that..
so much time has gone by but my eyes seem to be glued to you i’m surprised nobody has questioned my sanity because i’m pretty sure my head is not attached to my body
and with a snap of a finger i’m back to reality where i have to pretend we’re just friends and not in some fantasy where you’re mine and i’m yours cause that’s not how the story goes unfortunately, we’re stuck in my daydream and i’ll never be able to show you the love i’m capable of giving you
‘I have learnt some common sense’ – Ovid, ‘Through With Love’
And I have drowned in words today, too many phrases and perceptions, out of the dark and into the open.
‘Something like the hmm of lust? Last?’ ‘It’s either collision or rhymes with it.’ ‘For my friend’s cousin’s girlfriend.’
Amores in my bag, tongue of sense and soul, pulverise, vaporise me, empty me of meaningless voices.
Through the cracks slip merciful connections – meet me after, we’re escaping, we’re walking right off the face of the earth.
On my way to the exit an interception. ‘Hey girlie, I need you.’ Words I’ve wanted to hear for a long time from someone with his scent.
‘Sign this off for me.’ He’s clutching a large book to his chest. Disappointment lasts until he opens it up, exhibiting experience
I’ve collected in echoes: the ageless frame, the gestures and accent shared with all my heroes. ‘I think I’m the least nostalgic
person I know.’ Hand half across the page, he quickly covers the excess of youthful sin. ‘I was twenty.’ Smooth skin, faceless body.
I peek at the date. ‘I was six.’ That is so the wrong thing to say. He nods. ‘When I was six I wanted to be a saint … wore off quickly though,
I just liked the gory stories. What do you write? Oh God no, not poetry.’ - ‘Why not?’ - ‘Whenever I try to read it I just don’t get it. I prefer paint,
unless someone reads it to me.’ I decide to be a reader instead, to voice it all out loud, burn my notebooks, and dedicate myself to wordlessness.
Shamelessly twenty minutes late, as the night falls outside I can feel it, no windows but the sky inside me, and the ultra-bright moon, higher.
On my way up stone stairs I spot your knees, your shoes, such familiarity. As we snake up the street, my speech returns with tales you deride: ‘It’s just work, it’s just talk, it doesn’t mean anything.’
Riding home post-dessert, scrawls talk from walls: ‘Closed because of funding problem.’ Literally – the foundation’s dug up. ‘Have sex, not guns.’ Instant improvement of a situation. ‘Going down?’ I’m still climbing.
The roses, on the pink side of cream, barely scenting of summer, are open.
Amores. Translations and line drawings in which to find better words all night.