"bookshops" poems - Hello Poetry

"bookshops" poems

There was a time we lived in those museums mother, do you remember? seeing everything from Art Nouveau to German Expressionism or Cubism There was a time we walked on Adenauerplatz beneath old Linden trees There was a time our winters were full of german gingerbread & mulled wine & our Spring spent wandering the Schlosspark There was a time we spent our summers watching swallows by the sunny Wannsee lakes & our autumns in spacious cafes & international bookshops we talked the other day again about the Russian one how ever since we left home we'd not seen so many Russian books in one place it seems the vision of home never leaves you just waits dormant in your heart for something to remind you of it just as now that Lesser Ury print reminded me of our Berlin & days of Love Parades & blissful freedom I will not regret the journey you made us take because it meant we got to live in heaven there was a time we lived there there was a time we lived there

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Sep 15, 2015

Sep 15, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC

dreams-of-sepia

There was a time

There was a time we lived in those museums mother, do you remember? seeing everything from Art Nouveau to German Expressionism or Cubism There was a time we walked on Adenauerplatz beneath old Linden trees There was a time our winters were full of german gingerbread & mulled wine & our Spring spent wandering the Schlosspark There was a time we spent our summers watching swallows by the sunny Wannsee lakes & our autumns in spacious cafes & international bookshops we talked the other day again about the Russian one how ever since we left home we'd not seen so many Russian books in one place it seems the vision of home never leaves you just waits dormant in your heart for something to remind you of it just as now that Lesser Ury print reminded me of our Berlin & days of Love Parades & blissful freedom I will not regret the journey you made us take because it meant we got to live in heaven there was a time we lived there there was a time we lived there

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Oh ferocious angels, lionesque children of Eden on narrow streets and polluted alleyways whispering cruel things to each other, you're radiant in your belligerence and as my enemies you are virtuous. Beside me in this carpeted rectangle room a faint glow exhales from the tall alpine ivory lamp illuminating firefly wings of blossoms alluringly exuberant in the afternoon sun-ray diamond shine and shimmer. Dusty tin roofs billow firewood smoke in the thick violet shade fog over-top cabin potted mountains and hills sprouting firs and rose bushes abounding. Spectrum cast chandeliers echo staircases which jot up and up arduous ruby landings, hardwood floor cracked and stacks of novels ballast the senescent hallways of bookshops where poets works and journals diaries and memoirs blur the serpentine walls with memories. Angelic the soul which is too often contaminated with avarice rebellious to concord living harmonious midst dew grass and calm waters in residential lakes empathy equanimity, far from Bodhisattva. Few kinds of darkness transcendental subduing other darkness to a weak shadow. There's an importance to admiring the delirium of metropolitan roads on roads this intricate unspoken connection to those who rest by stoplights and crawling traffic metallic molten aura of cars in July heat. Paying attention to the open window of adjacent apartments where Mr. Norris waters his tulips and shares this moment modern meditations practiced finding a balance in such an anxious volatile world like this. Oh ferocious angels, impetuous forlorn seraphs, sing! sing and soar! Boundless is our ardor and our passion. Unenclosed is the lion in it's bloom.

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Apr 1, 2015

Apr 1, 2015 at 3:09 AM UTC

Modern Harmonies

Oh ferocious angels, lionesque children of Eden on narrow streets and polluted alleyways whispering cruel things to each other, you're radiant in your belligerence and as my enemies you are virtuous. Beside me in this carpeted rectangle room a faint glow exhales from the tall alpine ivory lamp illuminating firefly wings of blossoms alluringly exuberant in the afternoon sun-ray diamond shine and shimmer. Dusty tin roofs billow firewood smoke in the thick violet shade fog over-top cabin potted mountains and hills sprouting firs and rose bushes abounding. Spectrum cast chandeliers echo staircases which jot up and up arduous ruby landings, hardwood floor cracked and stacks of novels ballast the senescent hallways of bookshops where poets works and journals diaries and memoirs blur the serpentine walls with memories. Angelic the soul which is too often contaminated with avarice rebellious to concord living harmonious midst dew grass and calm waters in residential lakes empathy equanimity, far from Bodhisattva. Few kinds of darkness transcendental subduing other darkness to a weak shadow. There's an importance to admiring the delirium of metropolitan roads on roads this intricate unspoken connection to those who rest by stoplights and crawling traffic metallic molten aura of cars in July heat. Paying attention to the open window of adjacent apartments where Mr. Norris waters his tulips and shares this moment modern meditations practiced finding a balance in such an anxious volatile world like this. Oh ferocious angels, impetuous forlorn seraphs, sing! sing and soar! Boundless is our ardor and our passion. Unenclosed is the lion in it's bloom.

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Far from the restless boom box blare jazz blue **** city lights and guitars on fire miles from the urban smell of opulent people, pierced armpits bulldog buildings pressed together in a dead-heat many asphalt moons from quaint village cafes Yankee Stadium, Central Park, Queens Boulevard and downtown mystical bookshops I found a clear, pure halcyon stream hewn from stars, trickling down from Heaven an affluent vision of strength gushing over the softer translucent parts of me gentle Yogi yodeling through my alpine heart lets sail upstream to the roof of your prayer washed Zen mountain offer lotus garlands and incense at sunrise we kneel in the Temple Alucinante (Please share the warm embrace of my new Poetry book: 108 Bhakti Kisses, The Ecstatic Poetry of a Modern Day Gopi http://amzn.com/0984787216)

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Jan 4, 2014

Jan 4, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC

sonya-ki-tomlinson

Temple Alucinante

Far from the restless boom box blare jazz blue **** city lights and guitars on fire miles from the urban smell of opulent people, pierced armpits bulldog buildings pressed together in a dead-heat many asphalt moons from quaint village cafes Yankee Stadium, Central Park, Queens Boulevard and downtown mystical bookshops I found a clear, pure halcyon stream hewn from stars, trickling down from Heaven an affluent vision of strength gushing over the softer translucent parts of me gentle Yogi yodeling through my alpine heart lets sail upstream to the roof of your prayer washed Zen mountain offer lotus garlands and incense at sunrise we kneel in the Temple Alucinante (Please share the warm embrace of my new Poetry book: 108 Bhakti Kisses, The Ecstatic Poetry of a Modern Day Gopi http://amzn.com/0984787216)

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Crossroads are a particular kind of place where mythology and actuality combine, mix and dance with your shadow. Limitlessness has a name and social security number in your restlessness and your ambitiousness. I've performed in cafes and on street corners, In bookshops and depots, woods and public restrooms with the junkyard profits desperately clutching to my clothes, refusing my money but begging for my love. But now I am at the crossroads. The smoke from my soul comes in, forces me to turn around, turn around turn around, and see the faces, so many different faces, all those who have loved me, mocked me, befriended me, mentored, hated, changed maimed spit in my eye called me what they thought I was. So many faces. So many eyes full of dreams and ire. How many would I come to know again? Who would become fortune tellers blues-men teachers cops preachers mathematicians builders destroyers soldiers of fortune businessmen liars or junkyard prophets? Who will become like smoke in the fog, slightly hazy lost-boys off to never-never land, never to be seen or heard from except for the cries that whisper the time? So many faces. What will I be to them? A companion friend liar hater lover brother sideshow an I knew him when a face that looks at their back at the crossroads, a wisp of smoke? I turn again, turn turn, a cymbal shot pushes me forward, left and right, but I can never go back behind. Johanna whispers Even salvation must get old. I know she must be correct, at least as far as I can turn my head. The right is barred, the left is guarded by the beasts, the faces hum a dirge or a lullaby, I straighten my jacket, pack my self into a slip bag, and blow away with the smoke.

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Apr 16, 2011

Apr 16, 2011 at 11:44 AM UTC

jacob-ryan-rosendale

Crossroads are a particular kind of place where mythology and actuality combine, mix and dance with your shadow. Limitlessness has a name and social security number in your restlessness and your ambitiousness. I've performed in cafes and on street corners, In bookshops and depots, woods and public restrooms with the junkyard profits desperately clutching to my clothes, refusing my money but begging for my love. But now I am at the crossroads. The smoke from my soul comes in, forces me to turn around, turn around turn around, and see the faces, so many different faces, all those who have loved me, mocked me, befriended me, mentored, hated, changed maimed spit in my eye called me what they thought I was. So many faces. So many eyes full of dreams and ire. How many would I come to know again? Who would become fortune tellers blues-men teachers cops preachers mathematicians builders destroyers soldiers of fortune businessmen liars or junkyard prophets? Who will become like smoke in the fog, slightly hazy lost-boys off to never-never land, never to be seen or heard from except for the cries that whisper the time? So many faces. What will I be to them? A companion friend liar hater lover brother sideshow an I knew him when a face that looks at their back at the crossroads, a wisp of smoke? I turn again, turn turn, a cymbal shot pushes me forward, left and right, but I can never go back behind. Johanna whispers Even salvation must get old. I know she must be correct, at least as far as I can turn my head. The right is barred, the left is guarded by the beasts, the faces hum a dirge or a lullaby, I straighten my jacket, pack my self into a slip bag, and blow away with the smoke.

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I’d trace your spine until you felt the love from my fingertips burn hotter than the pain shrieking in your bones. I’d fiddle with your lamp until it was the perfect shade of indigo. I’d keep watch for you in the dark and shield you in the blinding light. I’d run you baths that made you feel pure. you’d never sleep alone, unless you wanted to. even then, I’d be sitting against your door with a glass of tea, fruit, and your pills. I’d write you pathetic sonnets. I’d sing you off-key songs. I’d read you poetry that brought us both to tears. I’d draw you stupid doodles and try to make you laugh. you’d never be alone on the miserable floor. those ******** with all their relentless, maddening buzz wouldn’t be heard over me. louder, or more demanding. I’d feed you Nutella: my very last spoonful. I’d clean your room as often as you wanted, or never. I’d take you to bookshops and cafés and nowhere at all. I’d sit with you and play with your piercings. you wouldn’t be alone, staring awake at dawn. the dark, it wouldn’t be spent so restlessly. I wouldn’t quieten my desire. no. not this time. I’d say I’m sorry when I laughed so hard I spit. I’d love you when you couldn’t love yourself. I’d care for you when all you saw was waste. I’d carry you wherever we went and tell everyone you’re mine.

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Jan 24, 2018

Jan 24, 2018 at 10:57 PM UTC

infiniteheights

I’d trace your spine until you felt the love from my fingertips burn hotter than the pain shrieking in your bones. I’d fiddle with your lamp until it was the perfect shade of indigo. I’d keep watch for you in the dark and shield you in the blinding light. I’d run you baths that made you feel pure. you’d never sleep alone, unless you wanted to. even then, I’d be sitting against your door with a glass of tea, fruit, and your pills. I’d write you pathetic sonnets. I’d sing you off-key songs. I’d read you poetry that brought us both to tears. I’d draw you stupid doodles and try to make you laugh. you’d never be alone on the miserable floor. those ******** with all their relentless, maddening buzz wouldn’t be heard over me. louder, or more demanding. I’d feed you Nutella: my very last spoonful. I’d clean your room as often as you wanted, or never. I’d take you to bookshops and cafés and nowhere at all. I’d sit with you and play with your piercings. you wouldn’t be alone, staring awake at dawn. the dark, it wouldn’t be spent so restlessly. I wouldn’t quieten my desire. no. not this time. I’d say I’m sorry when I laughed so hard I spit. I’d love you when you couldn’t love yourself. I’d care for you when all you saw was waste. I’d carry you wherever we went and tell everyone you’re mine.

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The High Street at first was marked with Charity Shops forever in lieu came the Pound Shops. Old Brands stayed with us but in turn the internet compounded the decline perhaps cyber shopping is akin to playing pong, the familiars, like a fire-storm evaporated, music, bookshops, photography whose to know the next stage? but I bet the inner city will be hamlets of chiefdoms, Gertrude the concrete cow adorned with Golden paint and urban Cowboys duelling in Midnight Charades

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Jan 15, 2013

Jan 15, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC

The Emptying Streets

The High Street at first was marked with Charity Shops forever in lieu came the Pound Shops. Old Brands stayed with us but in turn the internet compounded the decline perhaps cyber shopping is akin to playing pong, the familiars, like a fire-storm evaporated, music, bookshops, photography whose to know the next stage? but I bet the inner city will be hamlets of chiefdoms, Gertrude the concrete cow adorned with Golden paint and urban Cowboys duelling in Midnight Charades

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You don’t choose to go into bookshops anymore, you don’t read much, you hear about calories and five-a-day but you don’t stick to it, you say you’ll exercise but you never seem to do any, you notice a blossoming paunch but choose to keep it, you lose friends and rarely gain any, you don’t make much of an effort and rarely care, you don’t sleep as much as you should, you don’t like the job you’re in, you don’t know what job you should be doing, you only work for the money, you don’t have enough money, you buy things you don’t need, you don’t talk to your parents enough, you don’t talk enough, you spend too much time on your phone, you care more about technology than your friends, you don’t look where you’re walking, you moan about the youth of today, you aren’t as mature as you could be, you still live at home in your thirties, you see your friends getting married and having kids, you watch too much *********** you haven’t travelled as much as you’d like, you are quick to body-shame, you don’t understand what LGBTQ+ means, you can’t tell the difference between Conservative and Labour, you wear the same clothes day in day out, you are not the best driver, you have social media pages but aren’t sociable, you sigh when girls you like get into relationships, you know you never stood much of a chance, you have too many fillings, you don’t celebrate birthdays much, you are getting lazier all the time, you haven’t had a long conversation in ages, you hate your neighbours, you don’t know your neighbours, you get angry playing video games, you order takeaway food rather than cook, you say this is my year when you know it won’t be, you haven’t told anybody this, you haven’t even told yourself, you are not sure you need to.

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Nov 17, 2018

Nov 17, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC

reece-aj-chambers

Pick and Choose

You don’t choose to go into bookshops anymore, you don’t read much, you hear about calories and five-a-day but you don’t stick to it, you say you’ll exercise but you never seem to do any, you notice a blossoming paunch but choose to keep it, you lose friends and rarely gain any, you don’t make much of an effort and rarely care, you don’t sleep as much as you should, you don’t like the job you’re in, you don’t know what job you should be doing, you only work for the money, you don’t have enough money, you buy things you don’t need, you don’t talk to your parents enough, you don’t talk enough, you spend too much time on your phone, you care more about technology than your friends, you don’t look where you’re walking, you moan about the youth of today, you aren’t as mature as you could be, you still live at home in your thirties, you see your friends getting married and having kids, you watch too much *********** you haven’t travelled as much as you’d like, you are quick to body-shame, you don’t understand what LGBTQ+ means, you can’t tell the difference between Conservative and Labour, you wear the same clothes day in day out, you are not the best driver, you have social media pages but aren’t sociable, you sigh when girls you like get into relationships, you know you never stood much of a chance, you have too many fillings, you don’t celebrate birthdays much, you are getting lazier all the time, you haven’t had a long conversation in ages, you hate your neighbours, you don’t know your neighbours, you get angry playing video games, you order takeaway food rather than cook, you say this is my year when you know it won’t be, you haven’t told anybody this, you haven’t even told yourself, you are not sure you need to.

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i will admit i am not the type of girl to go to a bar and sit in a cloud of smoke and listen to music purely because it is live and i apologize if that is what you were expecting of me but that is just not me i am the type of girl to go to old hidden bookshops and inhale the scent of literature i am the type of girl to sit on my bed at 4 am and talk about all the thoughts to a friend i am the type of girl who is more interested in sitting around a bonfire than going to a mall i am sorry to any human expecting anything more or less of me but i am not like that, it's just not me i am a homebody, i am an lover of the arts, i am an introvert i am a lot of things, but i am not a loud and extroverted human i love my comfortable home and my few friends now you are aware of my awkwardness and inability to be uncomfortable i refuse to do something i don't want to i am not going to do something purely because of the view of others i am me, i am not going to change and you are you, and you shouldn't have to change to get along with me i apologize for expecting that of me, but then again i am not going to apologize for being me

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Jan 16, 2018

Jan 16, 2018 at 1:23 AM UTC

thatbutterflygirl

i am not that type of girl

i will admit i am not the type of girl to go to a bar and sit in a cloud of smoke and listen to music purely because it is live and i apologize if that is what you were expecting of me but that is just not me i am the type of girl to go to old hidden bookshops and inhale the scent of literature i am the type of girl to sit on my bed at 4 am and talk about all the thoughts to a friend i am the type of girl who is more interested in sitting around a bonfire than going to a mall i am sorry to any human expecting anything more or less of me but i am not like that, it's just not me i am a homebody, i am an lover of the arts, i am an introvert i am a lot of things, but i am not a loud and extroverted human i love my comfortable home and my few friends now you are aware of my awkwardness and inability to be uncomfortable i refuse to do something i don't want to i am not going to do something purely because of the view of others i am me, i am not going to change and you are you, and you shouldn't have to change to get along with me i apologize for expecting that of me, but then again i am not going to apologize for being me

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share with me a life full of apple seeds and plants. a life bounded only by --?-- old used bookshops - - - bookships. set sail with me, won't you? set sail with me to the ends of this mighty earth and dirt spurs my moments to perfect oblivion- full, so full. empty, with such fullness. you are --?-- and I am in love with you. you are in love with me. we are in love. like sour diamonds and tents full of naked adventure, riversides, mountainview ride into lopsided beauty- I am yours to keep, darling, if you'll have me.

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May 6, 2013

May 6, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC

beauty wasn't net worth (or, beauty and the great big --?--)

share with me a life full of apple seeds and plants. a life bounded only by --?-- old used bookshops - - - bookships. set sail with me, won't you? set sail with me to the ends of this mighty earth and dirt spurs my moments to perfect oblivion- full, so full. empty, with such fullness. you are --?-- and I am in love with you. you are in love with me. we are in love. like sour diamonds and tents full of naked adventure, riversides, mountainview ride into lopsided beauty- I am yours to keep, darling, if you'll have me.

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I missed the old hippie that always gives high fives to everybody. The kid that always hangs out for free coffee. The geek that reads books in bookshops until closing. The dreamer that never stopped dreaming. The artist that never stopped at life no matter what **** comes in. Today I missed the old self that I was once in.

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Oct 19, 2016

Oct 19, 2016 at 11:19 AM UTC

then came in Adulthood

I missed the old hippie that always gives high fives to everybody. The kid that always hangs out for free coffee. The geek that reads books in bookshops until closing. The dreamer that never stopped dreaming. The artist that never stopped at life no matter what **** comes in. Today I missed the old self that I was once in.

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I don't quite remember that Pretty projection or dubious construction. The dream that kissed with tangible lips I cannot elicit A lazy shape of limbs Sprawled across threadbare blankets. Warm hearts and cold feet. Bookshops piled to the rafters; Places of whispered exchanges And smiling, arm through arm. I can't conjure up The taste and stain of cheap red wine, A tongue that laughed and sung To Louis Armstrong, on the radio. In cold Septembers And aching Decembers, Left to my reckless imagination... I wish that I couldn’t remember.

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Jan 25, 2014

Jan 25, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC

I don't quite remember that Pretty projection or dubious construction. The dream that kissed with tangible lips I cannot elicit A lazy shape of limbs Sprawled across threadbare blankets. Warm hearts and cold feet. Bookshops piled to the rafters; Places of whispered exchanges And smiling, arm through arm. I can't conjure up The taste and stain of cheap red wine, A tongue that laughed and sung To Louis Armstrong, on the radio. In cold Septembers And aching Decembers, Left to my reckless imagination... I wish that I couldn’t remember.

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aren’t as many second hand bookshops on the charing cross road as there were when I was younger of course, so were they ..

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May 20, 2025

May 20, 2025 at 7:52 PM UTC

aren’t as many second hand bookshops on the charing cross road as there were when I was younger of course, so were they ..

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coffeehouses and bookshops are obsolete and underrated i always seem to feel the most comfortable and loved while the wooden brown furniture and smells of roasting beans envelop me in transparent steaming tendrils of intimacy reaching inside to find my inner poetic self coming up with all sorts of ostentatious phrases to make my prose sound extremely extravagant and therefore myself a satisfied troubadour chronicling my ****** escapades through life and love agromania heliotrope pavonine quinnat vorpal zydeco don’t i sound special? It’s the coffee fumes that are finally getting to me Caressing the recesses of my brain, drawing out streams Of words that which i do not know the meaning of Can i be sure they’re even real? Can i be sure of anything anymore?

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Nov 4, 2014

Nov 4, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC

allison-meyette

22 October 2014

coffeehouses and bookshops are obsolete and underrated i always seem to feel the most comfortable and loved while the wooden brown furniture and smells of roasting beans envelop me in transparent steaming tendrils of intimacy reaching inside to find my inner poetic self coming up with all sorts of ostentatious phrases to make my prose sound extremely extravagant and therefore myself a satisfied troubadour chronicling my ****** escapades through life and love agromania heliotrope pavonine quinnat vorpal zydeco don’t i sound special? It’s the coffee fumes that are finally getting to me Caressing the recesses of my brain, drawing out streams Of words that which i do not know the meaning of Can i be sure they’re even real? Can i be sure of anything anymore?

Continue reading...

Imagine a world without hope; No dreams No wishes No expectations Imagine a world without romance; No Romeo and Juliet No Beauty and The Beast No Jack and Rose Imagine a world without books; No libraries and bookshops No bedtime stories No writers Imagine a world without music; No songs No live shoes No dance Imagine a world without sugar; No cookies and cream No icing and candy No untimely deaths Imagine a world without social media( No quick access to information No unwarranted comparison No cyber bulling Imagine a world without hate; No discrimination No racism No fright Imagine a world without poverty; No children dying of hunger No one working instead of schooling No preventable deaths Imagine a world without science and religion Imagine a world which can never exist.

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Jan 16, 2019

Jan 16, 2019 at 4:48 PM UTC

Imagine a world without hope; No dreams No wishes No expectations Imagine a world without romance; No Romeo and Juliet No Beauty and The Beast No Jack and Rose Imagine a world without books; No libraries and bookshops No bedtime stories No writers Imagine a world without music; No songs No live shoes No dance Imagine a world without sugar; No cookies and cream No icing and candy No untimely deaths Imagine a world without social media( No quick access to information No unwarranted comparison No cyber bulling Imagine a world without hate; No discrimination No racism No fright Imagine a world without poverty; No children dying of hunger No one working instead of schooling No preventable deaths Imagine a world without science and religion Imagine a world which can never exist.

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sometimes my first thought is still you but it is dull now like a toothache sometimes my mind says your name in the same tone it uses for poetry sometimes i sit in bookshops and catch the ghost of your lily perfume but it is a distant thought a faraway noise an ephemeral scent and it is like you are here, yet not as if you are sharing your essence with another plane of existence barely here in your translucence you sit between realms equidistant over the edge it is okay, my love you can let go now i am not where you left me.

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Dec 28, 2017

Dec 28, 2017 at 7:38 AM UTC

call off your ghost

sometimes my first thought is still you but it is dull now like a toothache sometimes my mind says your name in the same tone it uses for poetry sometimes i sit in bookshops and catch the ghost of your lily perfume but it is a distant thought a faraway noise an ephemeral scent and it is like you are here, yet not as if you are sharing your essence with another plane of existence barely here in your translucence you sit between realms equidistant over the edge it is okay, my love you can let go now i am not where you left me.

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I. Stretched days are too long, like some sort of ****** dub step playing on repeat at the back of your head. Soapy touch of bluish air (or kitchen light, I suppose), and soft cracking sound of ice in glasses, the scent of rose water and virtual vision of your skin against my skin/ your hands on my hands. (And we might be humming some out tuned songs in languor, sloppy voices). II. Too long, I think of old weekends. Where me and my cousins used to meet up at some fancy cafes/ random bookshops/ or maybe just my house or their house. And we'll talk a lot or nothing at all. Sometimes, me and N, my closest cousin---childhood playmate to be precise, would just sit beside the floor windows and sink our bodies in the blurry, grained afternoon sunlight. I'd sit with my legs crossed, dry hands holding some novels (which I pretend I'm reading) and N would put a pillow on my thighs and sleep on it. We both felt secure and very, very exhausted, as if we've travelled back to our child days, then to the present time again. Strange enough that we're both people who have cold hearts but still share a bond with each other. III. I keen-eyed, knuckles-snapped staring into the.......long tunnels. Look how quick the shapes can shift in the dark, but can you get away with it? Can you get away from all the morphing and deformation before it turns into some kind of tragedy? Some kind of blood wash? You think you're fast enough but there'll always be something quicker, something that'll wait for you one step ahead. Throw your hair behind, feel the speed, and jump on it, if possible. (Ps I wonder who am I when no one's looking. )

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Sep 15, 2016

Sep 15, 2016 at 8:18 PM UTC

Destruction Of Memories & Every Other Wasteland I've Visited Before.

I. Stretched days are too long, like some sort of ****** dub step playing on repeat at the back of your head. Soapy touch of bluish air (or kitchen light, I suppose), and soft cracking sound of ice in glasses, the scent of rose water and virtual vision of your skin against my skin/ your hands on my hands. (And we might be humming some out tuned songs in languor, sloppy voices). II. Too long, I think of old weekends. Where me and my cousins used to meet up at some fancy cafes/ random bookshops/ or maybe just my house or their house. And we'll talk a lot or nothing at all. Sometimes, me and N, my closest cousin---childhood playmate to be precise, would just sit beside the floor windows and sink our bodies in the blurry, grained afternoon sunlight. I'd sit with my legs crossed, dry hands holding some novels (which I pretend I'm reading) and N would put a pillow on my thighs and sleep on it. We both felt secure and very, very exhausted, as if we've travelled back to our child days, then to the present time again. Strange enough that we're both people who have cold hearts but still share a bond with each other. III. I keen-eyed, knuckles-snapped staring into the.......long tunnels. Look how quick the shapes can shift in the dark, but can you get away with it? Can you get away from all the morphing and deformation before it turns into some kind of tragedy? Some kind of blood wash? You think you're fast enough but there'll always be something quicker, something that'll wait for you one step ahead. Throw your hair behind, feel the speed, and jump on it, if possible. (Ps I wonder who am I when no one's looking. )

Continue reading...