home is a vacuum

Home sucks like a Hoover vacuum cleaner.

 

I can’t breathe here.

Like literally… I can’t.

I think I might have bronchitis. That might just explain a lot of things.

That might explain
not being able to sing for the past three weeks or so,
not being able to sleep on my back without choking,
not being able to talk

to them,

makes me feel far away and distant

in outer space,

just floating

with bad communication and hairline fractures

gasping for air.

 

I don’t know.

Just my best guess,
which is the best I ever get
nowadays.

 

divine love affair

January 17th, 2017 –––––

She is like… like white, fluffy sea foam rushing through sandy toes. She is like salty mist blowing through my ocean-blue hair. Like the shifting texture of windblown sandscapes. She is almost hypnotic, like the waves. I wave back.

Like the upside-down world as I lay on a fresh pillow of grass in the middle of somewhere. She is like the auburn glow of fallen leaves, the perfect accent to green pastures. She is like the sway of the trees. She likes to speak to me with the sway.

She is somewhere in the wind. Gentle like a woman’s touch, powerful like a woman’s heart. She is.. somewhere in there.

She is like soft skin.
She is the perfect season.

She is the most caring and gentle person I know. Just her presence makes me feel warm. Like every hour is golden hour. She is like the perfect nudge or squeeze on the shoulder.

She is the best of storytellers.

She looks deep into my eyes and finds a lost child, lost in the playground of his dreams. She drops the world for the child and dives into his dreams. Not to pull him out, but to play with him. I tell her, “Wait! Just a little while longer”, and she waits. She tends my cuts and bruises, just by listening to me.

She looks deep into my eyes and finds a lost child and says, “I believe in you.”

She is the best of storytellers.

Her eyes. Oh man, her eyes.

Something about her gaze pierces me, through my burning tears, through my dark, fathomless eyes, through my soul. Her eyes possess magical powers. They make me feel known and understood completely. It is almost too intimate. Makes me feel like the most important person in the universe.

She looks at me tenderly. And somehow, my world slows to a standstill and I can see the stars.

Yet even these eyes do shed tears.

Wait. Just a little while longer. And she waits. No matter how big or small the wound. We sing the same song of heartbreak together – she seems to know exactly when to sing alto harmony, when to sing in unison.

She looks at me tenderly.

She is slow-burning blue fire.
Like me. We join hands and dance like the flames.

She is affectionate, yet empowering. Her heart is more delicate than mine, yet it burns with fiery passion. She is vulnerable, yet unbreakable.

January 22nd, 2017 –––––

We were this close, looking straight into each other. Our mouths slightly buried in our crossed arms so we smiled with our eyes.

She was beautiful. I knew her eyes could see right through me. All we did was look at each other but we felt alive. This moment was exactly when we needed to be, where we needed to be. Everything else faded to the blurry margins of our peripherals.

Sometimes, romance is this game you invent on the spot while you play it. And somehow, she just knows what the rules are.

I took a deep breath, opened my mouth a hint, and slowly blew into her face. I didn’t think she could get any prettier. Her bangs were gently pushed aside as my breath softly caressed her forehead. I thought it was cute the way she squinted.

Her turn.

She drew her own breath and blew. It was a long one, putting mine to shame. It rushed through my head and through my hair, soothing my mind and massaging my soul. My head felt clear and crisp, the way the wind is on a brisk winter morning.

We went back and forth, taking turns blowing, playing this arbitrary game meant only for fools, only for lovers.

Only for us.

January 17th, 2017 –––––

“Who is your God? What does He mean to you?
What does He look like? What does He wear? What does He smell like? Who is God to you?”

“Who is my God? My God is…

Well, He is a woman.”

homelessness

It’s almost unbelievable.

To remember what’s forgotten.

To be separated from those you love for so long and forgetting what it’s like to be with them.

You forget the nuances of their voice. The tonal inflections. The cadence.

The poetry.

You forget what it’s like to stand next to them.

Sharing a space together.

You forget how to position your body. How much personal space to give. You become extra aware of how close you stand by them.

You forget what it is like to walk with them.

The pace of our stroll. The patterns of our footfalls. The syncopated steps, strangely synced together by odd time signatures. We are percussionists. Our rhythms have so happened to line up in a time like this.

You forget what it’s like to talk to them.

The art of storytelling. Where did we leave off? Which chapter did we bookmark? Which episode? Don’t worry, I’ll re-watch it with you.

You forget what it feels like to make eye contact with them.

The strangeness. The tension. Who breaks contact first. The trust. The intimacy.

The inability to explain what it means but the sureness of knowing it meant something.

You forget what it is like to share a silence.

The nagging of our consciences to fill the emptiness.

The surrendering.

The release when you discover that the emptiness is actually already filled.

With treasures.

The vibrant, colorful dialogue exchanged between two souls at a loss for words.

The richness of silence.

Precious stones. Hidden, yet we somehow have found them together.

 

p

You forget who they are.

And yet, you don’t.

p

p

You learn, and then you learn again.

You taste the sweetness of second and third times.

Fourth. Fifth. Sixth times.

Eventually, you wonder if each time will be your last.

p

p

You wonder if they remember. You wonder how much they forgot.

You wonder if you’ve remembered too much.

You wonder if they haven’t remembered enough.

You wonder if there even is a balance.

You ask yourself if it’s worth the heartache to remember. If you should just try to forget.

You realize that you have no choice but to remember, anyways.

You forget and you remember.

“What is a farewell even?”, you ask yourself.

You figure the human soul was never meant to say goodbye.

So you stop.

You never leave, yet you are always going.

You try finding home. Or building one.

Then you run away.

You protect your heart, for it must be far too frail. You wonder if other souls are as fragile.

You never leave.

You keep them at arm’s distance.

You give up.

The tragedy that we were never meant to bid farewells, yet we have no choice but to do so.

You accept the inevitability of heartbreak.

That perhaps, this is the human curse.

You memorize.

You see the forgotten beauty of remembering. That the world has remembered how to forget and forgotten how to remember.

You collect memories like a child collects toys.

And the toys have names. They have life. They have distinct personalities and you know how each of them would respond to your jokes. To your sorrows. To your battle cries.

“Are they real?”, you often ponder. Sometimes you even ask them.

You realize that they ask the same question, themselves.

Perhaps we’ll never know.

But then, you decide to remember.

You forget, yet you never really forget.

You cannot.

You invent heaven into a place with no goodbyes.

You start to realize why you wander and tread the earth. And why even as you travel, your baggage is yet so heavy.

You understand you were never meant for this world anyways.

You accept that home was never here to begin with.

You begin to see that you’re just a pilgrim, of sorts.

A time traveler.

Never forget.