i am kinda delirious right now and i don’t know if it’s the nyquil or the sleepiness that is getting to me. i don’t think. i walk empty handed. the hot cocoa is brewing, the powder is simmering and slow dancing with the boiling water. while the popcorn is exploding in the microwave. it sounds like muted gunshots and that sorts of calms me down. instead of blood, the scent of butter wafts across the atmosphere. through diffusion, i learnt in ninth grade biology class. i want to talk about mundane things and make them beautiful. that’s all i want to accomplish. new york sounds like it is in the belly of a sperm whale right now, a constant echo of barely breathing bodies in their rem sleep. who said this city never sleeps? since energy can only be transferred, all that vibrance during the day simmers down into calmness throughout the course of the night. anyway, i hope i am still qualified as an adult if i can’t manage black coffee. this 20 calorie pack hot cocoa does the deal for me. i’ll foster the child in me in respects of toys r us. i burnt the popcorn and it tastes like failure. reminding me of all the occupations i desired to be when i was 10- professional basketball player, bouquet arranger, things i’m still figuring out the name to. i am especially fond of the color tones of wood- birch, maple, give me all of it. kind of sad it’s built into a casket though. it should signify life. my feet trek on forest floors daily. i’m too tired to pack for “home”. i was born an islander but i swallowed the city and the doctor never extracted it outta me. it stays in my lungs- the polluted air and my heart- the meanness. i’m waiting for my cocoa to cool, watching the steam evaporate is almost disconcerting. how warmth easily dissipates from bodies. the caramel color reminds me of my babe’s skin though, right on her lower back, that part i never leave cold during lovemaking (my hands are constantly parked there). in conclusion, i spill and you all catch. sometimes it just drains me down to sea crystals. solid but demanding to be fluid.
Seduce me. Write letters to me. And poems, I love poems. Ravish me with your words. Seduce me.
The doctor sits me on a table and asks me to stick out my tongue.
I ask him if he sees the paintings I carry in the back of my throat.
He laughs as if I’m telling a joke,
I’ve got Basquiat, Schiele, Van Gogh, and Da Vinci
so when I laugh, I taste brushstrokes.
I ask him if he can stick out his tongue
so I can see what he has trapped inside of him.
He hesitates a little then he does and I see a man who
struggles for acceptance and chokes on the word
Who are you
Tracy Emin - You Forgot to Kiss My Soul, 2001
she doesn’t like silence. so i provide her with lengthy periods of author’s quotes (mind you, only the ones that are dead) and discussions of paintings i still can’t comprehend. silence reminds her of the nights alone with no hand to hold and a cigarette lying idly on an ashtray that no one uses. tsunami drenched pillows and dusk stained sheets. i wrapped my solitude and gifted it away, setting dynamites on my insecurities but like fossils- they grow back after time. i wish i can treasure them like rare gems, yet the truth is there are more coal than diamonds.
the thought of being alone scared her.
i try to be omnipresent, took up meditating classes in hopes that she can only see my breaths in mist forms. it didn’t work. i live too loud. the next best thing is a suggestion that she can be alone in my company. it isn’t enough. she wants to consume me entirely. i lay my body naked- laced in landmines, hoping her touch won’t trigger a reaction. it did, believe me it was catastrophic. the death count is unbelievable: one. a part of me died that night. or she revived a piece and took it for her collection. if her lips were barbed wire, i would want to get hurt more often. as her fingers grazed the dunes of my shoulders, the trenches in my skin is being filled with love. or lust. i didn’t know at that time. i’ll take it. passion don’t come around here.
i examine the moles on her figure and can’t help but be transported to an galactic observatory, connecting constellations and witnessing the greatest supernova when she twirl moans on her tongue. her body squirms and the line between pain & pleasure get so fine, it’s practically invisible. i don’t mind the second degree burns she leaves on my palms when she softly kisses them, it almost feels like the sun and moon finally making love. so much longing.
i want to do to you what three am loneliness feels like.
we don’t have to wait.
New York City has the most brilliant textures. Sometimes it’s perfectly smooth like wet glass. Sometimes it’s like crushed velvet. Other times its the texture of layers and layers of paint on a canvas. Then sometimes it’s beard stubble. It’s brail for the eyes.