Salinyay-blog - Bananafish

black lips

five weeks before you broke my heart, i had this dream where my father stood in front of me. two generations lost in close-knit shadows, facing the other in the midst of a nightmare & staring deep into the vortex of each other’s eyes.  

in a rusty voice, he recited to my face every lie he’s ever told.

his childhood, the seize, the running, my mom, his misery.

in the rhythm of his words, in the flow of his lies, his lips began turning black.

Lie      after               lie, his lips, a shade d   e      e         p            e               r in the obscurity.

turning my back on this show proved useless, as my neck was stiff & my legs, knee-deep in thick soil.  

stare & listen, while tears water the ground

i tried screaming, as to suffocate the torture of his words with my own shriek. but my mouth was sealed closed & my hands, disloyal to my commands.

i woke up a fountain of cold sweat, sobbing.

….

two nights before we murdered our love in cold blood,   we met for drinks at a bar à vins. the gleam in our eyes yelled to the entire world how traces of ancient grapes ran in our blood. god were we playful while life was onto us.

sneaky little romance

we talked about it all that night: gravity & flying,      friction & fire, language & riddles. for the 500th time, you corrected my pronunciation of the letter u. & in the stretching of your mouth, i fell victim to the evident art in your beauty; jawlines dancing in perfect rhythm; an enigmatic symmetry traced in your face.  

on our way home, we walked the streets as if sidewalks were made for peasants & we had just been crowned kings. laughing,    stumbling, holding onto each other.

in a deserted street, you wrapped me in your arms while murmuring in a secretive voice:  

i love you

we both smiled.

& under beams of moonlight, while my eyes hunted for your eyes, i noticed red wine had stained your lips black.

- @skinthepoet

We've been having so much fun in Italy; a lot of strolling, talking, swimming and diving into the Mediterranean. I've been writing a lot too; this country, a fistful of love.

thoughts on youth & this dusty skin. fear of years. a mirror maze. how great to drift in a city with no name. alone. 

In urgent need to follow young poets!!!

It is quite unbelievable that there will be people that I will love unconditionally that I have not met yet. Somewhere out there, in a supermarket or singing in the shower, there are souls that have not touched mine yet but will, eventually.

// The Skies We’re Under j.d.m. (via poetryandthesea)

the things we learn on our mothers’ laps

see that lady standing there between the window & the fire extinguisher? she’s just lost her father & i think her boyfriend just left her.

why the fuck would you say that?

i’m telling you, i’ve got this superpower. i just know.

how’s that? a superpower?

not a marvel studios superpower, u silly. more like this supreme capacity. i’ve always had it.

when my dad abandoned my mom, she lost herself in the world’s most dangerous drug: poetry.

she used to hold me on her lap while reciting emily brunte & sylvia plath.

i think that’s why i can read into people’s sadness.

when i come across sadness on the street, authentic sadness, the blues crawl out their host & come talk to me. i’m thinking of starting a mémoire or a blog on it. like that humans of new york, u know?

talk about those things we learn on our mothers’ laps…

i reckon everyone who’s lucky enough to have a mum will undoubtedly learn something whilst resting on her lap. my mom used to sit me on her lap while she revised old latin scriptures & tried herself at egyptian hieroglyphics.

that’s why sometimes tombs & churches murmur their secrets to me. they tell me stories about the afterlife & how, if demanded gently, fire can caress the soul the way water strokes the curves of an overflowing vase.

they find it hilarious that we make a big deal out of our own end.

when all there really is, is an everlasting void.

- @skinthepoet

I want to open my mouth and sound a language that calls all language home.

Nickole Brown, A Prayer to Talk to Animals (via tristealven)