To Be Touched So Lovingly, So Fondly, As If One Were Still Healthy. As If One Were Still Worthy Of Affection

I will write about you until my hand aches and my heart does not.

purpl-reign  (via wnq-writers)

lets do an honesty hour ask me anything

french kiss : expat

hard to explain how i never thought i would end up in france. hard to explain how this country did not choose me to come live here. funny how romantic it sounds to blame it on destiny; as if this country & i were the lovers whose glances first crossed amid the urban chaos of a subway station. no. this magic has never existed in my love affair with this nation.

in spanish: amor apache (or the art of both passionate love & vivid hatred between two individuals). i can't articulate my speech as i seem to have lost my words somewhere in the flames of our burning love.

some days i rot in the frustration of not belonging; a result of frequently trimming the rough edges of a red existence in a blue world. some other late nights, i get to my apartment half drunk on red wine & half drunk on happiness; i lie on the floor of my tiny 19 m2 & feel my neurons marinating in french slangs & tones. i look back on the olden days when french first came dancing on my skin; how it then gently climbed up my spine to waltz on my shoulders & later infiltrate my brains. oh god i wasn't even looking.

tu me fais oublier ma langue maternelle, chaton.  

but tell me, france, why have we been so rough to one another? i know this ain't no love story though i certainly did run straight into your arms. please, france, confess to me: how did we become the enemies who suddenly fell head over heels for each other? like the fighters who mysteriously found love in the corner of a boxing ring; & lost in their yearning for a stormy fight, they now fail to draw the line between the infatuation & the bloodshed.

france, just tell me where the loving ends & the punching begins.

s'il te plaît, petite tête.

should we move on with the fighting, may our battle warrant the presence of deities. should we sail off into the open seas of our love, may the wind tell us her secrets on how to flee.

On a pitch-black night, we stare out the window at the emptiness of space. eye to eye, fear to fear. & for a split second, life seems to be all about the safekeeping, the kissing,

& the screaming.  

- @skinthepoet

ART HISTORY MEME | [1/7] sculptures; david

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