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.