Airport Bar

We’re pushed together, packed like sardines at the bar

He sees me reading and strikes up a conversation,

Friendly fella sort of guy.

I place my book down to indulge him-

we’re both, after all, just trying to survive

the next flight,

the next trip home.

“You could fit hundreds of books in a kindle,” he tells me, as I begin stuffing my book in my bag

And immediately

I regret not telling him to fuck off.

prettyhouses

That One Little House

I stay late to write

I don’t even know what about-

Life feels like a hurricane at times, and I,

feel like that one little house on the block

who crumbled when all the others stayed strong and upright-

no defects,

perfect and strong.

What the fuck is up with that?

The universally accepted truth is that life isn’t fair,

that it isn’t easy,

and the promise attached is that it’s also worth fighting for.

But if you crumbled and your bricks met the ground,

it takes a lot more strength and courage to rebuild yourself than if you had just stayed in shambles,

And that’s not an universal truth-

It is mine.

Sometimes all I can do is be

the shattered pieces that this life has made of me,

even with all the courage inside to rebuild my walls.

But for what? and for whom?

Pretty houses on a hill…

I just don’t belong in that world.

I’m gravel in shambles, shards of tile thrown across the floor

and in time, I’ll be a mansion

But darling, that time is set on my watch

not yours.

Unsent Letters

When I had my first heartbreak, I wrote hundreds of letters filled with things I felt I needed to say to him.
I never sent them. They sat there, occupying the space his body used to take while serving as some kind of therapy, a cover to my silences. No one seems to get it, but sometimes, some people aren’t worthy of hearing the pain in your voice, the shaking your heart sends over to your vocal chords and which you just. can’t. disguise.
So write. Write your feelings away until there’s nothing left to write about.
I write, still. Letters that no one reads, that no one sees. Once I get it out on paper and I hold in my hands the emotional weakness my heart seems to be able to admit, then, and only then, I can begin to let go of the pain your non reciprocated love seemed  to bring to me and these blank pages, scattered with words and nonsense and feelings I can’t understand nor define.
But darling, don’t feel special. You weren’t the first, and you certainly won’t be the last to break this heart of mine. There will be other subjects, I’m certain, so enjoy your time in the limelight.

Fading Away

It’s weird how memories fade.

Where do they go when they leave?

Up above beyond the clouds? Or do they just hang down below instead?

Underneath the dirt of our dirty soles,

our tired souls…

Who can no longer remember the curve of smiles, the scents left behind in the imaginary trail our bodies made?

To where exactly do our memories fade? And who can say how fast?

Why are some ghosts of our pasts still here, and the others long gone,

Far enough away from our minds that we no longer know who’s alive and who’s really dead. No, not anymore. Not these days.

Where do memories go when they fade?

And what if they stayed instead?

One True Sentence

“Write one true sentence,” she read the advice of one of her favorite authors and then proceeded to scribble “I MISS HIM” in pencil, so as not to feel so permanent.

Her writing had always been honest, though she tried to avoid the feeling of longing for another and the pain that followed once the realization of distance set in. Because that’s the only reason for anyone to ever miss someone else: distance. Whether physical, emotional, or spiritual, distance in any shape or form almost always resulted in that terrible, deep longing we humans can feel. There’s a word for it in Portuguese that captured this feeling perfectly, in all of it’s melancholy glory: “saudade.”

But she had become too used to goodbyes to allow herself the pleasure of missing something that had, until then, been constant. If she didn’t stay in one place for too long, goodbyes were easy to say. They became expected, embraced even. She tried to count in her head the many times she had said goodbye in the past 29 years, to family, houses, friends, favorite places, lovers… but she couldn’t keep track, the numbers and names just started to dance in her brain. Shouldn’t she be immune to missing people and places by now? The difference in being a gypsy like her, she concluded, is that she had to learn early on to carry home in her heart.

Truly, she never meant her goodbyes. They were just words she uttered as she left with new people and experiences in her heart.

Today, she would let herself miss him.

One true sentence. One true feeling among all the others she felt these days.