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64. when its not lego you’re playing with
my friendships fade the way snowangels lose their shape in the hale of falling snow. the past is covered up by the present. the future cares little for memories. if at all. little girls think that...
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65. no puns or pokerfaces, just sordid fantasies of everyone involved
i don’t like things when they get too serious. then all the fun is gone and we are left with feelings that are solidified into blocks of ice no burning passion could ever melt. it’s like having too...
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66. as we stand there
what moved me yesterday was not the explosion after explosion in the sky, nor the coldness enveloping us in a tightly huddled mass of warm bodies. it was the way you looked at me, as if seeing me for...
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70. because i’m a dreamer
i’ve realised not long ago how shame has filled the crevices of my life. and yesterday i let it out on you, because in all this time you hadn’t realised. you bought me presents that i liked, you told...
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73. so you can stop and wonder if i’m yours
i’ve decided, i won’t allow words to tear us all apart. and my pain shouldn’t matter. this pain is fleeting. and my heart will be beating into the next millenium, where loves bloom redder than...
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it’s glass
it’s glass, translucent white murano [christmas morning, shock, lips meeting in the dark] that detonates you in my mind чомусь smashed champagne bottles [the glass opaque, the colour of wet sand at...
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79. let me fall into this stupour
why was the moon shining so bright last night? and the night before last. the night before that it was cloudy but still it managed to peek through. and i don’t know what to say to you. i used to...
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80. this once, its more than enough
bonne anniversaire! i like the way it rings, reverbrating from the eardrums straight into the heart. it’s been a year. only. already. and i don’t know how to feel, i just feel the need to thank you for...
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86. i think she knew
through my paperround last year i met a wonderful man. he used to walk his dog as i’d deliver papers and we started talking around the time i started writing this blog. i think he’s 82: he must have...
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91. cultivating life
a vibrant note of a harpsichord flies in: a coloured bird, a richly feathered parrot. i feel alive; a spark travelling down a strip of litmus paper, exhuberantly coloured, incadescently moving. such...
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