The red birds and blue flowers are back in our world, it seems. Again I have become part cloud and part smile and grief. I wonder if you woke up as the light that only knows to cry, as the indifferent sun again. A day like this wasn’t supposed to happen, not now, when we are almost complete by ourselves. A day on which small impossible love like ours sings out from nameless graves buried in meters of snow.
I go back to sleep wanting to forget things that must be done today, dreading to walk into you, hoping to walk into you, knowing that I would love you again, especially on a day like this where I am too broken, when I am too much myself.
Days like this make me belief that I would end up with you no matter what. That even when I run away, even when I cry because of love, even then maybe I want only one thing- to be with you.
His face lit up with the death of every colorful explosion in the sky. He hates this sky on other days (among other things). Today he loves it, this darkness, this crowd, even me. (Maybe not me, but it doesn’t mean anything to me now. But in moments like this I am reminded of the “me” who would have wanted his love or at least be part of the world that can be loved. The ‘past me’ shakes off my hand and stands there looking at him as if he is her sky, but only finds the signs of deaths that have nothing spectacular about them. I stand there looking at my sadness, his sadness breathing the air and living some sort of life for once.) He stands there looking at the sky through my silence, through my awe, awe at his simple happiness. (How long has it been since he has loved anything with his breaking heart.) He stands there looking at the sky even when curtain of stars resurface, even when the screams of children dissolve. He stands there abandoned by the world and yet happy. (I stand there abandoned by him, by myself and yet happy)
I hope something beautiful of this world
seeps into your dreams gently
and I hope it gives you the strength
to wake up another day
to a world that was also made for you,
even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.
The shoes I am wearing are wearing thin. I feel my clothes trying, trying hard to slip out of me and I don’t try to hold onto them. That is how I have always been.
I see an appproaching death, the sihouette of another ending that I won’t be able to take and I order another drink, I put down the book that was getting a bit more real that I expected it to be, and I wait with open eyes to witness the truth of every undoing that is in my fate.
This is me- the one who cries absurdly at a broken sole, at my frayed edges, at a day-long, a month-long, an year-short love, the one who tries to mean “till the end”.
The one who can only smile when called cruel and cold- that is also me.
in my cramped world you find a place for yourself.
you become one with all the bright things that i collect at the cost of breaking myself.
as you smile, i wonder whether you have a thing for girls who have forgotten the taste of truth.
i wish you do. i would like to love you once, before you learn to hate girls like me.
this room was gift from my ex whose hobby was to be loved by the one he wrongs.
but it is a story for another day. my story with you is not that deep. you don’t need to know that my corners of my lips are ripped from smiling while being hurt, that they still hurt when we kiss.
it kills the mood. it kills me a bit, to be honest. all your words, the beautiful things you want me to have, want me to be they are enough for me to love you for a while. it is enough for me to forget the demon i see in you.
aren’t i an easy girl? one day you would hold that against me as well. i fall for you knowing that.
A new announcer has replaced the old one. The one with the shrill voice is too tired or too sad to continue, I guess. This new one, she sounds more like my type. She seems like the one who will define my types. I am so thankful she is not the one who tells me to go back to sleep when I am crying at 3 without knowing why. So thankful that this deserted night, this cold concrete, her cold instructions, her reminder to wait patiently reminds me that this is also a day I will forget if I do not do anything. I am so thankful that I cannot confess my laughable weakness to her. If I wait as she tells me to my life will come swooping in and take me somewhere else- a new place where I will hate everyone again for not speaking the way I like, for loving me wrong, for not accompanying me on the empty train stations when I try to run away from all that I have built, from all that I have tried to call my new beginning.
Another day flashes across my sky. Another moon rushes past my life. There are clouds that I have learned to walk on. There are days when I forget how afraid I am of this world. This is what my miracle looks like.
There are songs that never meant anything till you sang them for me. As I play hide and seek with your smile, I am forgetting the reasons to hate myself. I am forgetting things that I never allowed myself to forget. This is what my miracle looks like.
I dream of a one room castle. I find the idea of falling in love with this world something worth looking forward to, something worth a try. I find the courage to want the impossible. I find it easy to put my heart outside my body, in this world. Nothing breaks, nothing withers. Finally, my heart grows old with me. This is the miracle that walked into my life holding your hands.
Now that we have buried all the clocks, a day passes only when our eyes meet again, night comes only when we say goodbye. And when I walk away from the shade of her smile, I think that I am forgetting something, something that would have made me sad. But her name, her words have grown ferociously, violently on whatever I once was. So it doesn’t matter I guess what kind of person I was till I can continue to be the person she loves.
With each day crossed out. With each dresses, each mask added to the my wardrobe. With each hand that passed into mine, with each hand that moved onto the next too easily, I realized I knew how to dance to this tune that used to frighten me once.
Another stranger, another potential lover, another sun that has already grown cold, whispers in my ears – words I do understand.
I search for a harmless smile in my bag. I hang it carefully on my face. I turn myself into a gift, into a substitute of love for this person – who is dying like me, waiting like me, for something, anything to fill the time left.