#soft longing

You cannot sell a poem. But you still have to buy tomatoes, cheese, and garlic to make spaghetti. So you sell your soul, your time, your sanity. A good, warm bowl of spaghetti with chilled gourmet juice brings a little of it back. But mostly, it’s your voice. The way you show up every night. I’d write you a poem, but I don’t think you’ll be causing me heartache. Maybe I’ll write you a funny one. You’re a funny one, I’d say to you between bites of spaghetti I cooked and sips of red wine you picked up on your way over.

You cannot sell a poem. You cannot force a heart to come to you. And you cannot eat tomatoes unless they’re pureed. Fortunately or unfortunately… this remains the way life is.

Please gift me a bottle of olive oil on my birthday next year. I’ll buy you a book of poems you can leaf through when I’m asleep on your chest. The stars, like me, don’t know where this is going. But they linger anyway. Let your fingers trace it—our maybe—on my thigh, my back, my neck. Everywhere you can touch me, everywhere I am tangible. You lead, I’ll follow. And even if we tumble, let it be in play. We have enough scars and enough bruises—let’s give each other different kinds of marks.

Light your cigarette. I’ll light mine.

A love letter to you,

You, you, the wonderful you.

You, who my thoughts are consumed,

As if nothing else were to exist.

Looking at you—a door,

A gateway—to depths no other.

Losing myself,

Through you—no danger.

For what is danger,

Myself invited?

As long as it’s you,

Us—yours.

And yet,

It almost feels like a dream.

Where I wish,

That I’d never fallen asleep in the first place.

That feeling—of incomplete completeness,

Because I know—that you won’t feel the same.

And yet I still feel,

Like nothing could matter less.

So what could I be,

If not yours.

Yours—like a summers’ day,

That breeze—21 degrees—your favourite.

Like a winter’s eve,

In blankets—swaddled together—warm.

Akin to late nights—drinking,

Tipsy—that feeling of mellowness—with you.

But nothing—to the kiss from your lips,

Nothing—comparable.

So when I’m asked,

Even if not official.

What could I be,

If not yours?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⋯ ❦ ⋯

one day I’ll sit by the seaside during sunset with a book on my hand, a puppy between my feet. my hair won’t be easy and I’ll be worried sick you might feel anxious by the way I look now. after years.

but I’m 99% convinced that my eyes will fall into tears when I look up to you: do you want to meet just in time, even if it takes years of uncertainty? or will I go home and miss you forever?

or will you tell me not to worry much, and sit next to me as the sun goes down……..?

the other 1% will be my own disbelief if I don’t cry because in fact, I’m a tough crybaby. a woman so strong she can barely hold it all together when you’re near.

and my depth of feelings which might have terrified you, is simply my most vulnerable, tender side: the not anyone but you has known, and touched so gently, since the very moment we found each other again.

i don’t talk to people.

i talk to the quiet.

i leave my wishes

where no one interrupts me.

where hope doesn’t feel embarrassing.

where wanting is still allowed.

i’ve learned the dark

is a patient listener.

it keeps everything i’m not ready

to hand to the world yet.