Looking back, on
Words I said, words I didn’t
Bleeding from my pen or fingers;
People I’ve met and lives I’ve led
Where shall my words go from here?
Perhaps, my friends, with you
Still further yet.
Tag Archives: writer
Looking back, on
How eerily comforting to
Meet the one who shares your
Intensities, peeves and dark sides
A perfect mirror of one self
Familiarly strange, strangely familiar.
Arrest me with your eyes
For I’m guilty as charged
For the love I have raided
From the depths of your heart
Throw me in the prison
Of your tenderly warm arms
For I‘m guilty, yes I’m guilty
From the depths of my heart.
We hold beneath our
Skins, skewed perspectives but
Forget that, sometimes, like
All things in nature, they
I flopped into the couch and sighed loudly. He looked up, amused. I sighed again and pouted.
“It’s so difficult being real.”
“Why is that?”
“There’s so much hatred and self-centeredness out there. There’s just no point. No one cares anymore.”
He closed the book.
“What do you propose to do then?”
“Oh I don’t know, maybe I’ll just not go out that much anymore. It’s all so tiring.”
“Listen. What do you hear right now, outside the window?”
If there were such a thing as squinting my ears, that was what I did right then.
“I don’t hear anything.”
It was then that I heard it. The quiet chirping of a bird. But it was so soft that I would not have noticed it.
“It’s a bird chirping.”
“That’s right. Now, listen again and tell me what you hear.”
This time, I was getting the hang of this little exercise.
“Ah, there’s another bird. No, wait actually there’re two more.”
The birds were sounding pretty lovely actually, sort of like they were having an animated conversation.
“You see, the first little bird was just chirping the way he knows how to. The way he should. That is his nature.”
“And at first, he was just chirping by himself. But then, you heard another one responding to him. And there was a third. And it all started sounding pretty amazing. It became a beautiful three-voice song.”
He looked at me, smiling.
“But here’s the thing. No one could hear him at first. And even when he could be heard, not everyone likes his song.”
“Still, he continued singing that melody, not changing it or replicating another bird’s tune, because that’s what he was made to sing.”
“He’s just being himself. He’s being real.”
“And look what happened: other birds came. They understood what he was singing and responded to him, and now they’re having a mighty fine session.”
“I think I know what you’re saying…”
He gave me a wink before reopening the book.
As the music began, she drew him in, feeling his breath on her cheek.
“Come closer a little.”
His hand was travelling down her body, coming to rest at the small concave low at her back. She gasped at the sensation of his fingers on her skin; it brought back memories from so long ago that she thought she had left behind.
And as they danced, each move was a step back in time, each gaze a stronger stirring in their souls, and each turn closer to sweet destruction.
That dance filled the whole room, so much that everything had to melt away. All she could hear was the poignant beauty of the song in her blood; all she could feel were his hands on her skin and his breath on her lips.
He had that look in his eyes, that same desirous look of fever and wild that she remembered. The rhythm was pounding in her ears now, and all she knew was how perfectly their movements connected her to him and him her.
It was as if they had never parted, and the bachata plays, timeless.