The Tears, the Fears, the Years

It comes a time when the last 10, 20 years invade your thoughts,

and make you wonder what if.

And there have been so many different ways, roads, infinite possibilities.

They make you wonder whether you were supposed to be right here, right now,

or whether you took a wrong turn on the way.

And the place where you were supposed to be couldn't be further away,

and gone forever.

You wonder if there's still time.

If one time you'll see them again, lost people in space, and they'll recognize you,

or will they pass by you as strangers,

despite them being your life a decade, perhaps two ago.

In a hundred years, none of this will matter,

or will it make all the difference?

How do you know whether you were supposed to have let them go?

How do you know whether it would have worked out if you had tried harder,

said the right things, or kept silence?

Who's writing our stories?

Right now I feel so lonely

that I hand in my pen.

Will you write it for me?

Because I just don't know.

Too many regrets, wrong turns,

hoping it will all make sense one day, fall into place.

When I can look into your eyes; recognise you.

You that came to stay (a little late),

the one that will justify the last 20 years,

the tears, the fears, the years.

December

Wine again; starry night.

Solitude all over, and she smiles to the music.

Understanding, getting close to people, building relationships

can be scary and petrifying.

But once two sets of eyes meet in the middle of the night,

and speak beyond words,

peace, warm hearts, dreamy thoughts, smiles become reality.

She just wanted to kiss his mouth;

have her eyes wide shut tonight;

fall in his arms.

The invisible hustle and bustle.

Imperceptible city lights.

Only his deep brown eyes.

His apologetic tone.

Candle lights.

It was the closest, the deepest, the most intimate she's ever felt with him.

And it felt right.

Right there they belonged.

And it felt right.

Sparkly Dancing Yellow Purple Moments

Places from years, many years ago that became other places, and other places. The stories are still there, like an afterlife chronicle. Scents, sweat, laughter, noise, music, Pablo Neruda's poetry. Not knowing what would come next is magical, sublime even.

The non so magnificent scenarios came later, with regretful scenes, mistakes that can't be undone. That is what makes me sit and write, and miss old times, while boiling rice. All too real. I close my eyes tight to the sound of boiling water and feel that place again.

A bus ride? It was a bus ride to promote a drink. They picked up young people from the streets and... we entered the dark bus with disco lights, loud music... Round and round Ipanema. Who was I with? What drink were they promoting? What made me go on that bus? When was that?

I have memories of bus rides, soap bubble parties, diving in a swimming pool with my witch costume. A floating witch hat in the middle of the night. Unreal but real, which makes my world mundane now. Is it a requirement to be young again to lose oneself in Van Gogh's starry night, in an enchanted world left behind? Where do I get a ticket to another round of sparkly dancing yellow purple moments, where it is unsafe but safe? Gone but still there.

Rocky River

A writer is born out of pain. And he seems to be constantly looking for it, so that the words flow like a "rockless" river.

Rocks are little pieces of happiness with a bit of insanity in a yellow day. They confuse the path. The water path, the tears.

Writers look for impossible love, impossible stories, a impossible world, so that they get frustrated, disappointed, and ultimately they feel sad. And a poet is born.

A writer looks for farewells, memories of what will never be again. They concentrate on the feeling that will never return. A moment lost in space forever. And a poet is born.

Writers spend every day focusing on the gray, on that day... that last dance, kiss, touch, word. The misinterpretation of the unsaid. The lonely walk back home. The rain that doesn't wet. The heartbreaking tales that never made sense.

And a poet is born from the scream inside. A fire. A tiredness. A gaze through the window. From the dark. From the silent. From the loudness. From a passing thought. From feeling hopeless, helpless. From losses and music.

Dreams that stay dreams make writers.

Floating

No wine tonight.

Soberness everywhere, yet I float.

I float to the thought of having found you.

A musical, a dream, thin rain, cars' lights, city lights.

I'm in your arms completely conscious of where I am,

whom I'm with, yet I float.

I float to the feeling I feel.

It's night, it's velvet dark, yet I see your dark eyes finding mine.

And I float to my insanity. I float.

It's rapid, slow, warm and cold.

And I float in London Bridge.

There's no music but I hear it, yet I'm sober and I float.

Our hands touch and I float, yet I'm there.

Holding your hand.

Through the night.

Floating.

Autumn

I feel the autumn for the first time.

Crispy cold, sunny outside.

Leaves on the ground:

yellow - orange - red.

Summer songs finishing;

giving room to winter songs.

Christmas at stores.

I feel the wind on my face.

My heart warm inside when I remember you,

and secretly smile.

Colourful days; deep nights.

Sunday  afternoon cup of tea outside

before the holidays.

Loneliness and beauty.

I feel the music;

your presence and absence.

Blankets and rugs.

Door decorations.

Memories that sound better than the real moments.

All in my mind...

Dreaming of late morning lattes.

Writing in the dawn; celebrating red wine.

Watching parties from the corner.

Inspired by what no one else feels or sees.

Slow dance when all happens too fast.

I feel the autumn; the scarf around my neck.

The sunlight and the wind - the yellow, orange and red.

Balcony from the Castle

She found home but there's still something missing

journey after journey, time after time.

She found and lost love too many times.

Her world seems static now. Words are just words.

While her mind travels everywhere back and forth.

Slow music, slow pink dance, windy white curtains 

in an immense saloon.

Wooden floors. High ceiling. Large windows.

She lays on the floor. Lost and found at once.

Imagining funny shape clouds of blue and yellow.

The heavy rain - raining everywhere around her.

diamond stars.

Amateur theater; real audience.

She goes alone in the night.

She feels the noise and lets it complete her thoughts.

Everywhere, anywhere.

The book seems finished but there is no end.

There's always wine, and music, dimmed light.

And the balcony from the castle.

Time Machine Songs

You know when you didn't like a pop song 14 years ago, but now you start to listen to it to bring you back 14 years?

And you smile a sneaky smile, as the song plays over and over again. And you look for different versions of the song, which take you back in time in slower motions, rapid motions, distant, close.

And you use words from that time and remember beaches from that time. And you make a collection of songs from that time.

And you think you're free sometime later, but it all catches up with you - your cup of coffee, balloons in the air, loud claps...

The audience stands up - even those who did not understand the ending. And you realise it's been a 14 year play - with one too many plane journeys.

And you know when you make up the lyrics of your favourite song - and think the band totally gets you!

He also lost someone too soon, before life was finished. And wonders how he is going to spend all the days of his life without his love.

But all along he was singing he never needed his love, and it was all a waste of time. Why sing about it then? Don't sing about insignificant lovers and time... I don't.

I only know that there is more to it, or my sanity is long gone by plane. I did what I said I would do. And I'm here now, hiding from the rain - lonely as predicted. I did it twice.

I'm here now, and I don't understand a thing. People come and go as I watch, as I dream, as I wonder, as I drag on, as I have my wine, as time machine songs play.

Gin & Tonic

Gin and Tonic, yellow lights in the darkness outside.
It is a journey with music. We can sing along.
It is you and me. Us holding hands.
It is now and long ago.
Loneliness in the city. Dancing in the mirror.
Poetry and party. Night and night again.
Bubble gums. Hugs.
Words everywhere.
Your garden in a summer night.
A shower outside.
A ride. A whisper. A plane in the sky.
A blue swimming pool.
Gin and Tonic - we jump in.
Holding hands. Us.
Witch custom - I lose my hat.
Floating away. Splashes everywhere.
It's the music. Our voices. Each instrument.
Every expression - mute mode - we kiss.
Poetry and party. Stars and Summer.
Doorbells and drama.
Gin and Tonic, The Drums, the floor,
Outside.
Red dresses and rainbows.
Loud. Soft. beautiful and imperfect.
That was a night on a lost campus - in your garden.
In a nowhere to be found, except in my imagination - swimming pool.

Ciao to Stars

I guess this is beginning to feel, really feel
like good bye.
The lunches outside, dreaming of better days.
The dreams themselves... Or reality...
Marriage proposals, parents visiting from far away, drunken parties...
Funny videos, funny pictures, loud laughter - that eco in my living room right now.
I will miss you... I already miss us.
The us, original Nimba stars, who arrived full of expectancy...
when all was new... every smile and corridor.
Every new song, bar, argument, disappointment, tear...
Locked in my heart.
I hate the end. I hate good byes. I hate seeing us lost in space.
Floating away. Away forever from each other.
It was fun, it was a learning curve.
It was hard, it was deep... and full of alcohol.
It was ours... in the Camel. I love the Camel Bar.
Gross toilets, great music (I think)... The lights.
Our lights. Us... all over it.
I have a broken heart - whose pieces get smaller and smaller.
Day after day. Night after night.
Through life's good byes.

My Good Friend - Where Are You?

I don't understand what happened to us.
I feel trapped now... Still thinking of that night of freedom.
when we went, simply went out without having any idea how to return.
Sweat, kisses, screams, loudness, definitely loud.
oh I miss it so much I am crying now.
Now you are a different person.
I'm the same one.
far away and I don't understand a thing.
How did we each follow our own way?
What happened to us?
Why am I here?
I wanna scream louder than I can.
That concert still in my mind... I think it was 1995...
I was never meant to grow up...
And I'm here now at an old age.
still feeling like that teenager.
I don't understand.
Rescue me, please.
take me back for a few more seconds where I can breathe, where I can be me.
Lets laugh, sweat, jump, scream right now!
The two of us unafraid again! Not caring how the hell we're getting home.
take me back now for a few more seconds.
I know you don't miss that night.
I know you don't miss that concert.
But I miss it for both of us right now.
And I miss you and us and myself all together.
And I know that was it. Done. Finished. Forever.