I love with a dangerous, reckless abandon Fire and no hint of shame Occasionally with a lover in tandem I’ll be laughing and crying the same I fall in and out, seeming at random And play at love like a game
She, however— quite the contrary— Travels so slowly she’s almost inert She approaches my cavern, ever so wary Afraid that, again she’ll be hurt Time is her friend, the yellow canary If it falls silent; she’ll up and desert
"Don't worry honey, I took out the trash already."
Silence. More than silence. Space. Freedom. The radiant light crossing the distance between the worries pressing your spine and a task checked off by someone else when you weren't looking.
It is an air valve popping loose. A throat suddenly choked up even as the tension melts away from your muscles. Sacrificial love replacing the items on your to-do list, one by one. Your mind free to think again, to live again.
An oasis in a blinding desert, planted by another person, fertilized with their perception, and watered with their care.
It's not just that a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. It's that you're now weightless.
They have shouldered your burdens with a tender smile.
It is the absence of air - of space. A twoness made out of oneness, that slowly becomes oneness again.
It is fire. The light graze of HEAT along the edges of your suddenly tight knuckles. Every pore in your body falls in love in a vivid blur of life. It's all-encompassing, like how the lazy sunset spreads and pools its searching golden fingers across every living thing, clinging to the earth.
It is a lazy ripple striating across the surface. The stress leaving your body in waves as they rub your shoulder. It's an intense, firm awareness of every atom in your being, every breath and shift of your limbs a story waiting to be told. It's a prison and a release when they hold your hand for the first time.
It's earthy comfort and flickering excitement. Heavy heat and grounding warmth. Lightning nerves turn to steady assurance.
My words are borrowed, From the tongues of those Who stole our freedom.
Yet now I use them, For my expression In the name of —
A contemplation on the genuineness of my expression -- is it truly liberation when I exclusively use English, a language widely used by my oppressors?
On the one hand, I have no choice since I'm much more eloquent in English. On the other, even the circumstances that lead to the huge difference in proficiency between English (my second language) and Bahasa (my mother tongue) reeks of privilege. This is a constant dilemma I have when writing about social, economic, or political issues.
in english we say i miss you, like the person you seek comfort from is nowhere near. in french they say tu me manques, like that person is literally missing from you.
what i’m trying to say is: te echo de menos.
you’re not here in my circle of proximity. you’re too far away to hold close or kiss, or even meet for a walk & a talk.
& maybe it’s selfish or silly but i find myself daydreaming of you or how you make me feel
when you embrace me & my being; talk softly to me & laugh with me; walk calmly near me & search for answers in my eyes
or on my lips.
we’ll always be friends. but i think you’ll be that friend where i feel something more.
safe & calm; happy & warm; soft & blissful.
& while i can feel those things with my friends & family, it grows differently with you:
a gentle glow of light in the depth of my soul, kindled with every touch; every word; every look; every smile; every inhale of your cologne.
i hope it never dies out.
i used to question: what if it’s just the idea of you that i miss & the short time we spent together that i relive in my mind?
but i know it’s not just an idea. because if it was, i would want that with anyone who piqued my interest.
but it is listening to music with you & sipping cider in busy bars with you & sitting on cold benches conversing with you & lying breathing with you & how did it get to this, when surely you don’t feel the same?
i could see it, & maybe you could. but maybe that terrified you, or made you think more than you should.
pero que será, será; whatever will be, will be. the Lord will have his way, & it’s okay to feel, come what may.
so is this simply a nebulous picture that i once dreamt up on a train?