Boring Black Handbag

This could all be because my soul is in the words... The thin rain outside... It is in the traffic jam... when I close my eyes and run into your arms, and we sing together, run together, through the crowded streets from my memories, from what was and never was...

They honk and I'm back in a black cab holding a huge handbag... Why? When did I stop being light? Was it when I started an office job, sending paperwork back and forth? Was it when I lost you more than a decade ago? When my teenage years were left behind? Was it when I became ashamed of singing out loud... (well, I haven't really)? When did I simply stop being me? Did I wake up one morning as boring? Was it when life killed my dreams?

I still don't know. But the luminous, starry, velvety gray of London one day became just gray. The sparkly and musical hustle and bustle became a dull scene of cars stuck in silent, or loud sirens. They switched off the cars' headlights. I stopped breathing words, and my heart stopped beating. My childhood's ocean became still. And I started sending and receiving emails all day about nothing. It all became about nothing. Blank or gray. The laughter in the city became silent; every face became expressionless.

I feel like I'm drowning. I don't understand. I killed emotion after emotion, only to sit in the dark and cry out loud -- when they return to the sound of a laptop keyboard. Goosebumps that I can't hide anymore. I look for you every day in everything, as if you could bring me back. As if you could glue the pieces of you and me together again like it used to be. Because our past was a constant glittery party that never stopped -- where the music never stopped -- where my eyes kept meeting yours -- no matter how many people in between us. And my present is a huge, black, heavy, boring handbag, in a silent black cab, in the middle of a dark city -- where I want to scream.

Ramblings of a Psychopath

Under the duvet
drinking Spring water
watching the rain
the gray
Imagining you call my name.

She writes on napkins
Spells out her dreams
They are just dreams.
All the instruments
that play in her head.
Yellow train up the mountain
Switzerland dreams.
Little rocks, small little rocks
from long ago.

She stopped imagining.
It is all 9 to 5 now.
Late nights and cuba libres left behind.
The search is gone.
Her hope is in what used to be,
which "will use to be" forever.
They used to be
and it is a picture frame forever
in space
in the space of her heart.

Falling down from the stars
pieces of her memoirs.
Going down San Diego's ocean.
Sinking in her heart.
Sinking her heart.

Damn...

I am still in that van on the way to LA. The same song playing over and over again, while I look outside escaping to the green, outside, flying with the blue, far, so distant... Fun conversations, laughter -- until someone suggests another song... But you are sitting in the front... monopolising the cd player.

Now I listen to different versions of that song, and I close my eyes tight, imagining the fear of going bungee jumping... You missed me that day... Came by my dorm a few times, while I was flying in the air, holding on to the rope, and to the hope of never losing you. Really, never wanted to lose you. Holding onto you -- to the memory of you, the pieces of the puzzle that I remember now, which make no sense.

You used to be there day and night, all the time, and in my mind, and when I went to bed and woke up. Then gone. Rain drops on my window, taking you away. It hurts. The pain is greater than what we were, I know. I tend to fantasize, and dramatise, dream day and night, and listen to songs over and over again, and make up stories in my head. A normal day becomes something else and we become soul mates.

But that was just a sunny day. Bungee jumping in LA. When I had you and youth. When we were. When we were in real life. Not a story -- of a kind -- that exists in my mind.

Ashes

There is a sadness I've been carrying with me,
which will only leave me,
when I'm in your arms once and for all -
when the world will make a sudden stop to watch us, and nod
acknowledging the simple and most complex fact:
that we fall in place,
in the right place -
after a long, very long fall.

But we don't really.
I will never be in your arms again -
or see your arms... or see you...
in a distance, far away, walking away...

Memories should fade from when we stopped being.
Your name should be just a name.
Your face in my mind, just a face of a stranger on the street.
Photographs and songs should turn into ashes
and disappear in the air forever.
There should be no proof of us ever being.
Because the pain of losing you
is greater than all we were
and were supposed to be. Together.