-Título del blog-
martes, 6 de febrero de 2024
A story worth telling
martes, 14 de febrero de 2023
Hearts
I used to think highly of Valentine's day. I dreamed of the pretty gifts, the romantic dates, the kisses, the caresses.
I used to think there was nothing more romantic than a rose bouquet and a thoughtful gift, holding hands on the street. Silly me.
I've since come to learn that the most romantic gift is knowing that tomorrow, when the hearts disappear from the store windows, you will still be sleeping by my side, keeping my feet warm, you'll still worry that I forgot my gloves, you will still look for gifts for me, kiss me when I get home and tell me I'm beautiful before I put my makeup on.
Love is not found in grand gestures some days of the year, love is found in the small things, and our life is full to the brim.
Still, happy Valentine's, my love.
jueves, 12 de enero de 2023
Remember winter 2022
Gone are the words I had left to say.
With the spring of our lives still hot in our heels, karaoke nights and days for the deers. Snow can wait, I have hot coals burning my pockets.
There was so much, so much I wanted to say but I forgot it. I left all those words in between blankets and broken closets. Houses I will never visit again, beds I never slept in. Chile flakes burning my tongue, cats scratching my hand, and those karaoke nights. They all stole the words from me.
All the puzzle pieces of that picture from which to take without thinking, yet new pieces keep coming -the spring is still warming. It's a new picture, same but older, same but different, same but wordless. All the words that were forgotten.
And we eat grapes but we don't hear the music, and we go to our place and burn through our stupid, and I see the words that I wrote while we were off our faces 'remember winter 2022'.
'What the fuck are perfect places anyway'.
jueves, 21 de noviembre de 2019
30
miércoles, 28 de marzo de 2018
Goodbye
You told me stories of times long past, and bounced me on your knee. You gave me love and hugs and chocolate biscuits. I will always remember how you would build a tent under a fig tree, for me to play on those long, lazy summer days. How you would have freshly squeezed orange juice for me every Thursday. Little details, like the way you'd make malt drink every morning, the lemon syrup you so liked to treat me with, the strength of your hands, so big, holding mine. The scent of your shaving products, the sound of your laughter.
I wanted to call you, to tell you that I cared, I thought I would get another chance. May angels lead you in, gramps. I will always love you.
domingo, 28 de mayo de 2017
The loop
It's a dull, muffled pain, as though it came from a life past, from a different point in the loop of life and death, a different name, a different face, the same soul.
I gave the man some food that he didn't really want (the money, I just need the money, I can buy the food myself). I saw the way life ravaged his body, tore his insides out, and wondered at what point he became such a ghost of himself. Maybe in a room full of smoke and trash bags. Wondered then if it was a moment, if there was a before and an after, a point in time where he was irretrievable from the fog. Wondered if anyone could have stopped it, wondered if anyone would have cared, if he was alone because he burned through people like matches.
The man left and I watched him go, wobbling like the street was made of jelly.