Lurk

You’ve been hiding from me a long time. Perhaps in the pages of the book I left unfinished. Perhaps in the unplayed song on my guitar. Maybe you were wrapped in the words I like, like whimsical and love. Maybe you were in the sorrow that cuts me to the quick and leaves me new and clear and hopeful. Maybe you’re the l, in love. Perhaps you’ve been lurking behind bookends. Or maybe, you’ve been asleep in the sentences of my favourite piece of writing. Were you in the straps of my favourite bag? Or in the ink of my pen? Or the pages of my moleskine diary? Could it be that you are the gleam in the ring I wear or the lead in the pencil I write with? Perhaps you’re the o, in hope. You’ve been hiding in the sense of accomplishment that I have felt of late. Or in the rim of my cup of coffee, once I am done with it. The foil that wraps my favourite bar of chocolate carries you in it. You look amused at the pleasure I derive from the simple act of revealing what’s underneath. Maybe you’re the v, in overwhelmed. I don’t know. Maybe you’re the edge of a sepia tinted photograph pregnant with meaning and memories. I see you now, curled in the arm of the g, lurking behind the length of the b. I wonder why I haven’t seen you before, in almost every space I inhabit. Maybe you’re the e, in need. Perhaps you’re in the rightness of the embrace, the silk of the kiss, in the warmth of the voice and heat of that smile. Perhaps you’ve been waiting for me to come your way and find you. And I did. I read that book. I played a tune. I cried. I hoped. I dared. And there you were, looking at me, as if to say, “Where have you been all this while?”

I’ve been looking for you.

Stubborn

The lights that were reflecting off my rear view mirror suddenly disappear. The car has turned off into a lane, and I am all alone again, driving along this road that I so often take. The trees are an emerald canopy over my head and soothe the jolts of the rather rutted road.

As I head home, something is different. There will be no welcoming smile at the door, no dog with a wagging tail, no papers on the lounger, no coffee cup in the sink. I know I will see unwrinkled sheets on your side of the bed and your books neatly lined, untouched and unread. I know I will see your clothes in somewhat rows, lying in wait. Your miniature cars and bikes in their place, waiting to be fired up and your tortoise patiently waiting an eternity.

I insert the key in the door and it swings open. The smell of silence and longing pervades my otherwise calm house. I am alone, the walls tell me. And I sit down, fold my legs under me, get comfortable. And wait.

I hope this night brings you to me. Or at least that the dawn actually holds promise.

But more than all this, I hope that when you don’t come my way, I have the strength to pick up the pieces of my life, and get through yet another day.

Purple

Because I worship daily at the altar of this love, doomed and fractured as it may be, I make my way to your house and sit on the porch. I have come armed; my books accompany me. I attract no attention to myself, content at being this close to you. But even in my state of bliss, I can see the beginnings of chaos around me. I see you behind curtains of self-righteousness, safely ensconced in the fabric of sacrifice. You worry that I will make a scene, that I will not, contrary to what I had promised, disappear quietly into the night. That I do not, contrary to what I had said, understand.

And you’re right. I don’t.

Despite all talk of self-respect, I have no qualms when it comes to begging for a chance. Except that I do it with whatever dignity I can muster. I use my words, my eyes, my general outlook to the world, my wanting to live each day and not wait, my conviction that what I feel is real. And hope that the curtains will lift and the fabric will fall and you will be who you are and who I long for you to be. Just you. And just me.

Untitled.Unfinished.

How long does it take to fall in love? A soul kiss? A fraction of a second? A cup of coffee shared? A holiday? Eleven lines? A stuffed chocolate? Maybe it takes twenty years. Maybe it happens over a glass of wine. Maybe over a chance meeting on a busy road. Maybe over three slices of bread. And one green apple.

Perhaps it doesn’t happen, but grows. With every kiss and every sigh. When every farewell gets harder to go through, and you linger longer at the door, unwilling, unable to let go. You walk in to any place and wish he was with you, that he might like what you’re looking at, that he might like you in what you’re seeing. You visit a place and wish he were there with you. Maybe love happens when you stop thinking and just feel.

Bliss

Happiness isn’t a perfect circle. It is drawn instead by a child’s hand, or my own. Serrated, crooked, uneven. It is the last piece of chocolate. Or the one that you’ve tasted yourself. It is a shared cup of tea. It is wine, from your lips.

Happiness isn’t ideal. It is a man who chooses to leave, a friend who disappears. It is pain that brings you to your knees and you can’t seem to find the strength to just stand.

Happiness is the look in your eyes. It is a double chocolate chip cookie. It is a sweet public kiss. It is a man in black boxer shorts.

Happiness is a glimpse of a loved face, an unexpected visit, the not knowing of anything. It is the music that streams into my ears as I mourn. And the music that makes me laugh out loud in sheer pleasure as I ride. It is an unexpected lunch. And receiving books in the mail.

My happiness is imperfect, but exists. It is splintered, diffused light, grey, sometimes monochromatic, sometimes just plain black. Or blue. But it is what it is, and, like me, it is needy and often but not constant.

And that’s okay too, I guess.

Utopia

Your kiss unfolded her like a mysterious book. Sensual and tender, it spoke of longing and need. Your embrace held her like a weeping willow and she wouldn't, couldn't let go. When she looked into your eyes, they looked right back at her and you held on to that,that gaze amidst the intimacy. And then, kissed again.

What mood swirled like a slow moving dervish in that room, that day? What seized you and you surrendered to it? Was it a kiss goodbye, or intended to be? If you ask her what it was to her, she doesn't know..yet. But not goodbye. No,never that.

Perhaps a promise, a commitment made. Perhaps an acknowledgment of what had past. The kiss was a confirmation, a question mark, a conundrum. And she needed more of it.