do you taste me on his lips
when you kiss them goodnight?

do you imagine me with my sleepy gaze
when you wake up in the morning
and the other side of the bed is empty,
the sheets pristine?

when he praises you on your promotion
how do you feel when you realize
his words are echoes of mine?

does he ever wake up in the middle of the night
to hear you whispering on the phone
to a girl whose name he's never heard of?

did your daughter question why
there was a lipstick stain
on the sleeve of your shirt?

did your son ask you why
you were half an hour late to pick him up from school
and when you came, you were a mess?

do they ask you why you took the kodak off the shelf and brushed off the dust
do they ask you why you wear that suit and those jeans more often now
do they ask you why you seem to be haunted by ghosts of your guilt
do they ask you why you started leaving your hair long
do they ask you why you started smoking a pipe again
do they ask you why you come home late, late, later
do they ask you why you don't do horror any more
do they ask you why you
do they ask you why
do they ask you
do they ask
do they

"i have a question," you say to me,
drunk and drowsy, tangled hair and sweaty palms,
"do you love me?"

but

why do you ask me if i love you
when you're the one leaving me
every
single
night?

do you
do you think
do you think I
do you think I am selfish
do you think I am arrogant
do you think I am deserving
do you think I am just a fool
do you think I am too young, too naive
do you think I wanted this wanted this i never wanted this
do you think I love you of course I love you, I love you, I love you
do you think of me

the simplest of questions and the most complex of answers, the most
do
you
love
me
(back)
?

you will never know the extent of just how fiercely i love you- even if i have not yet lost myself in the galaxies of your eyes, or let my fingers entangle in your hair, or let your taste linger on your lips, and what do i know, they ask, what do i know-

i know, i know you don't do horror, i know you are a photographer, i know you love poetry, i know, i know you are beautiful, you are radiant, you are warm as the sunlight on my skin-

i know, i know- even though your breath has never dappled my cheek the way the sunrays have, or you have never let your skin skim mine, or the way you look at me will never be the way i do-

i know, i know- even though my breathless longing leaves me only with glimpses across a hall, or my words to you edge no further than the confines of lines within a diary, or i can be right in front of you and still so, so far from your heart-

so close, yet so far, here, there, everywhere, nowhere, distant, d i s t a n t, d   i   s   t   a   n   t   -

i am leaving. farewell, farewell-

i know i will come back, i know i will come back, iknowiwillcomeback, they all come back, theyallcomeback iwillcomeback-  

but it will never be the same. and one day, they stop, and they say i will, too-

the hallways will no longer echo with your footsteps (only in my heart), i will search in vain for your silhouette (trick of the eye), over, over, over-

i know where i stand in your world, but is it so wrong to hope, to dream, to want-

the last words fall from my lips; sowrongsoright; i love you, iloveyou, goodbye.

of water-
of water under the bridge,
of currents, of stars, of gales, of the way the earth moves
of movement. restless movement, and cycles, and change
and youth.

and you tell me
"love is a whirlwind,
the tides that break upon the sand
planetshaking change
and the burning of the sun"

of water-
of water in the well,
of ripples, of the hearth, of the breeze, of the seedlings in the soil
of stillness. of tranquil stillness, and a silent heartbeat, and a steady pulse,
and age.

and i have learnt
"infatuation is a whirlwind,
the tides that break upon the sand
planetshaking change
and the burning of the sun,

and love makes you want to hold still,
and build,
and last."

you will forget
the colour of my eyes
and the way i turn to the back door
instinctively, when i hear the click
and how, unlike you all, i do not yell across the cubicles
the way i crushed boxes for two hours, then
and how i cry, too easily
the six pack of strawberry milk (fresh from the fridge) that only i drank
the smell of fish and chips that wafted through the office and-

-you will forget my love,
my loyalty,
and soon enough,
you will forget me.

i don't want to forget.

"don't want to?"

no. i can't.

i cannot forget the christmas decorations that must be down by now
or the perpetually-unmanned front
or stale, recycled, air-conditioned oxygen that tasted like bliss
and lemon stained fish and chips, and salad that came out of a tub,
and scalding heat against my palm
and tears.

i cannot forget the way she laughs
like an orchestra of the wind beneath the branches
or the way you shook my hand
and made me feel like i belonged and
how you, you, my love, you are bothering to go to the trouble of sending me registered mail
so it doesn't get lost
the way i do, in her eyes

i cannot forget how you are different. special
and how you refuse to take selfies that are glamorous
because you have a sense of fun and
the first time you ever saw me, drenched
dedicated, yearning, and already in irrevocable love.

i cannot forget the strike i scored
with my eyes on a screen instead of a lane and
the cookies, the vouchers, the games
the screwdrivers, shoes, and sushi

i cannot forget the goodbyes i never said
in case i never say them, the next time i can
that once upon a time-
i belonged.

i cannot forget beauty and goodness and strength and
laughter and belonging and teasing and acceptance and
loyalty and experience and diversity and determination and
passion and teamwork and friendship and family and
love.

i cannot forget.
because you will.

you know what they say
if nobody remembers something any longer
did it really exist?

when i was young and foolish i thought that was so ridiculous
because it's happened- so it must exist
mustn't it?
and now i see why
the philosophers say what they do
and why people doubt.

i am so afraid to forget
because if i can,
then others can (and will), as well.

but as long as i remember (even if it fades from the collective remembrance)
then it will always exist
even if only
in the land of memories
and dreams upon our dreams
where we can never set foot upon again.

i used to play hide and seek with my querencia
(or did it, with me?)
games are captivating for the young soul
where play is forever and
pain is a dream upon a dream

and perhaps
i hid behind too many walls
and stole away from its heart
one time too many
and one day- i lost it. my favourite spot
(loss tastes like the colour of the rain.)

wirra
that is how you describe the goodbyes that were never said
(and even that is not enough)
so you try to forget and the walls you used to play behind
become shields. and barriers.
physical representations of my farewell.

then one day i discovered a different wor(l)d
the bonjour to the au revoir that querencia never left me with
it is all i could ever want
(words are not enough and the dictionary lies)

because my definition of serendipity,
is you.

when you are three you will bring home your first tracks of mud from the garden when you sneak out of the door to play. i will wash the grass stains off your socks and tell you to wait for mummy to come out next time too.

when you are four you will bring home your first macaroni necklace from nursery school and try to eat it raw. i will put it around your neck and we will make pasta together, minus the glue.

when you are five you will bring home tears and your first bleeding knee after falling off your tricycle. i will clean up the wound with antiseptic, put on a smiley face band aid and tell you it is okay to cry.

when you are six you will bring home your first finger painting from kindergarten and a white tee shirt that is streaked with a myriad of colour. i will place it on the laundry pile and we will stain canvas with paint coated fingers for the rest of the afternoon.

when you are seven you will bring home your first report card and babble excitedly about the A you got in art class. i will tell you i knew your teacher would love the tiger you drew that had too many teeth.

when you are eight you will bring home your first best friend and you will ask if you can have a sleepover. i will bake you cookies and put up a tent in the backyard so you can fall asleep under the blanket of stars.

when you are nine you will bring home your first 100 on a test and ask me if perfect is a good score. i will hug you and say that no score can be more perfect than you are.

when you are ten you will bring home your first girl guide badge and tell me you need it sewn on your uniform. i will teach you how to use a needle and thread and see your pride at accomplishing the task on your own.  

when you are eleven you will bring home your first medal from a junior fencing competition and tell me you love the foil but you are scared of the older ones who use epees and sabres (even though one day you will be one of them, too). i will hang the medal on your bedpost and show you my rusting sabre in the storeroom and tell you my stories.

when you are twelve you will bring home your first case of chickenpox from the girl who sits next to you in class. i will make you chicken soup and we will make bad puns about poultry for the next two weeks of quarantine.

when you are thirteen you will bring home your first failure on a test paper. i will sit with you in your room and go through your mistakes and we will learn together, because you are more than a number and i never want you to forget that

when you are fourteen you will bring home your first questions about why the girls in school giggle about boys when the name you doodle in your jotter book is the one of your hauntingly beautiful social studies teacher. i will tell you that love is whatever you believe it to be and who you love is less important than why you love them.

when you are fifteen you will bring home your first can of beer in an effort of rebellion and try to hide it in your room. i will get out the wine and we will share it and i will teach you all there is to know about alcohol and being careful around it, and regale you with stories about the fact that i am a happy drunk.

when you are sixteen you will bring home your first attempts at a resumé and tell me you want to find an internship. i will watch you with pride as you make your own way as part of the working crowd for the very first time and learn more than i could ever teach you on my own.

when you are seventeen you will bring home your first girlfriend and introduce her to me, blushing and stammering. i will smile and ask her if she wants any orange juice from the fridge, and watch you give me a grateful grin.

when you are eighteen you will bring home your first college application and all the relevant documents. we will sit down over the kitchen table and discuss the pros and cons of local and international schools.

when you are nineteen you will bring home a suitcase and some assignments when you come back home during break. i will watch you tuck in to local fare ravenously and listen to you dreamily talk about the girl you share your dormitory with.

when you are twenty you will bring home your first paycheck from a part-time job you’re holding while studying for your degree. i will joke with you on what blue chip stocks to invest it in and we will go out for dinner at a swanky restaurant together.

when you are twenty one you will bring home an engagement ring and ask me if it is too young to ask your dormmate turned lover forever. i will remind you that love has no age and preconceptions have no place in devotion.

when you are twenty two you will bring home everything you need to propose to the love of your life. i will watch her stare at you in shock and fall into your arms and cry, and i will smile at the way your breath leaves your lungs, and you cry along with her.

when you are twenty three you will bring home your first pre-wedding jitters and be fretting about tomorrow’s ceremony. i will reassure you that everything will be perfect- even if it isn’t.

when you are twenty four you will bring home your first spare key to your new place and entrust it to me. i will bring over the dishes you and your wife love every sunday and we will have dinner together, talking, teasing, and laughing till we cry.

when you are twenty five you will bring home your first daughter you have adopted from the orphanage.

and daughter, i hope you will tell her the things i have told you.

I am reading this poem,
late, in the snug familiarity of my bed,
with gentle night-light and sable night-sky,
stars swimming beyond the glass,
warm breaths fogging up the panes.
I am reading this poem,
curled on a beanbag in a library with her my by side,
breaths stirring against my skin,
like the winds of time, of change, taking me away from here.
I am reading this poem,
in a room that is abound with remembrance and days gone by,
where the bedclothes are heaped, fresh and steaming with warmth,
with the same freedom that the open valise speaks of,
a journey ending in success, a triumphant flight.
I am reading this poem,
as the underground train screeches to a halt,
and before heading up the stairs,
towards the love that life has bestowed on me.
I am reading this poem,
by the glow of the laptop screen,
where the headlines flash and flicker,
for once, joy is splashed across the monitor.
I am reading this poem in a waiting room,
of meeting eyes and crinkling smiles, more friends than strangers,
without fear.
I am reading this poem by firelight,
in the simple joy and jubilation of the young who know they matter,
and live with hope and inner liberation, from the earliest of ages.
I am reading this poem,
freed of the curved lenses, the cloudy cataracts,
and I can see the letters for what they are and I read on,
because this freedom is precious.
I am reading this poem as I sit by the radiator,
the milk is already warm (electricity isn’t cut these days)
child in my arms, book in my hand,
because life is waiting for me to live it,
knowing it is never too short or too long but just right.
I am reading this poem not in my language,
while she sits at my side and helps me translate,
because tongues are free to roam now.
I am reading this poem listening for something,
stopping to savour the taste of freedom,
to be able to refuse the task I cannot turn to.
I am reading this poem because I can,
and there is so much left to read
I have now and forever,
to soar untamed with wings unclipped, clothed as I am.