oil to water

Capital letters fill my screen

HEY HEY HEY!
DON’T SAY THAT!
I NEVER MEANT TO BE BAD!
I AM SORRY IF I HURT U!
I REALLY REALLY AM!
I REALLY REALLY GOTTA GO NOW!

I have a missed call,
The number is familiar but I’m not sure. Lie
It rings 3 times. Hello?
He replies Hi.
Static joins both our ears.
Hello, he says again.
And there is confirmation in his accent.
Oh Hi. Acting well.
You don’t have my number?
No, I never kept it.
(Do I dare believe there is hurt in his silence.)
"I’m so sorry. His voice so little. As if already in New York .
I feel sweat collecting under my fringe.
It's fine. Another lie.
"I had no idea. I should have called I should have apologized.
I should have…' the mumbling starts, my friend is back.
Many misunderstood phone calls resurface.
I say nothing.
The static is back.
Okay
I should go, I will speak to you when I get back.
I don’t answer.
Then do. Okay.
Okay .
Cancel the call
I fill full of tears. My face is burning.


Him nonchalant,
me disposable.
Oil and water.
However did I expect us to mix, well

What did i just do.

Never become, Never Leave

The urge is coming to fuck-it-all-up, to walk away. Like most things it starts small, a word. Like a verb. Wish, wreck, run. Then after more time, it turns into a string. Unwinding out hours worth of play.

Creating background static started in your lengthened absence. Initially impervious by a coating of your skin on mine, now washed away. Five baths, skin shaved twice.

Ideas not necessarily substantiated. Just second guessing really. My insecurity begins to operate. Continuing life as if you don't exist. An error in action? I end up at Prague bar, as usual. Drinking a lot, as usual; with the comfortable and friendly. The boy that pronounced himself rude and modern, my dear friend. Swimming in booze, laughing at each other, we are joined, a double date? We move to a restaurant, girl boy opposite girl boy. She is watching.

He does like you, but you know.
Yes, I do.
He is not enough.
But he’s lovely?!
Yes, he is.
Then there’s the unsaid sentence.
What are you doing, what about the another?
I’m scared he’s been totally washed away. (I don’t say this)

The pairs pair off and we walk home until the point of our separation. Attaching my lights to my bike I feel he’s watching me, I still like that. We kissed on the mouth, not planned, slightly open. And we both moved away, happily. I don’t look back.

How are we meant to feel about the ones that never become but never leave.

Worry wears me well
The strangest of parasites
devouring insecurity
She is well feed
an ugly beast
cruelty of girls
at its best
I woke up Saturday morning,
with three in my bed
our thoughts the same,
he’s walking you to the station?
he took your hand to hold?
following us
astonished at a distances
she murmur arrows
shooting them to the heart
I cower
breaking
inducing me to act irrational,
in a feverish turmoil.
You don’t know how to be a good girlfriend
How to be respectful, courteous, responsive
You don’t know how to give space,
give up space
But with this war
Your contagious calm
gentle ease and directness disarms us
All of our mouths open
I reach for his mouth,
my tongue is his
I feel her blush
looking away
with jealousy

These days she is paler,
Less well feed,
Hollowness in her cheeks,
More quiet
Less vibrations
I almost can’t even see her.
And no longer dream of others.
I thank him for that.

The slight headache is clouding it all, when all I want to do is clearly write everything, You text me, so I know that I‘m still there. It still surprises me when you’ve thought about me, talked about me, without me. I’ve been there and you’ve been here for 17 days now. I had to check the calendar. The first entry, four days before the show. We are standing next to each other in part of a square in silence, both leaning against the wall. My eyes are down, lying, passive, while R gushes, I act non affected, but I want this stranger who’s face I wont look at yet, to see me. You do, I let your eyes gaze at me without my judgement, you make me feel so pretty. Eventually I look at you and smile, we start conversing, easily and I feel like I’ve known your face forever. I tell myself I can’t kiss this boy, you just can’t. But for the rest of the party we hide from the others and tell the little stories. The theory of 'the little stories' When you first meet someone, you tell them the little stories, the ones that you love, and you want him to love you for. We must never stop telling each other these. It will keep us fresh and happy. I smile too often at your stories. I hate that.

Outside the night is too warm for the end of September. The last thing I wanted to do is go home, alone, to an empty bed of regret. But there is no way. I have already decided it is one of those nights. That will continue without sleep. I asked you if you want to go for a walk, I see surprise in your smile and yes. The streets are empty and I secretly name us the nocturnal walkers. For periods we walked apart in silence, happily.

In a full circle we were standing at my car, then you’re sitting in the passanger seat, we travel towards the bridges in the west. Kings of Leon plays through. The car is parked, the lights of Albert bridge glowing unbelievably romantically. I am cautious about all of this, its easiness.

As we step on over the water the lights turned off, and I am happy because I already know you are going to kiss me, wrapped up in the darkness.

After you is gone and I’m waiting at a bus stop, organizing a big mistake. There is a message. Something to help me believe that unlike all of the other times, same depth impressions have been made. Something real is happening to two people at the same time.


13 days ago, you aren’t here, You wrote 8.30, it’s now 9.10. I am in my blue dress and my hair is perfect and there are whispers of good and greatness around. Uncontrollable my heart is sinking. I give up. K asks me why I look so sad. He isn’t here. But you are, suddenly standing behind her, looking at me. I can’t tell what you are thinking. But you are casual. Lovely. Ready.

At 12, the noctural walkers are out. I kiss you as I wish you happy birthday. I actually close my eyes and wish that. And make that. In my bedroom after meeting your friends you sit puzzled. A small carrot cake, with one candle arrives. Every part of your face says thank you. I’m standing at the edge. When you decide the worthy of one human being.

He will come back

I have this scarf. Made from the most amazing blue and white stripped fabric. My grandmother had made it for my mother, it came as an accessory with a wonderful dress. When I wear it, I feel beautiful.

Walking underground I lost it. I had been sitting down for 5 minutes, reading, about to get on a train when I realized. I left the platform and retraced my journey, i was going to find it, i told myself. I walked the long walk from the DLR to Central Line. I asked all the staff if they had seen it. I felt lost and sick. How could I have been so blasé. Uncaring, butter fingers. Am I to lose everything. I walked as far as I can. And stopped, for a second, looking all around, everyone ignored my panicked face.

On the verge of tears I walked back through the barriers and down the escalators. I told myself, to let go. The scarf made difference to anything. I shouldn’t behave like that. Even though it was something special.

A thought traveled through me, like a train. And it disappeared again, into the dark tunnel. Things are never lost. The ones that come back are the ones I’m supposed to have. And walking back to the platform, caught in the wind against pillar lay the scarf.

I tied a knot in it.

Break. Break.

After walking away for the second time. I too walked, pulling myself off the brick wall. Not looking back behind, I break. I put on my scarf, groves and hat and walk to the number 8. The lyrics to ‘build a home’ resonate, the triumphant piano builds and builds. I will build a home for you, for me.
Sitting there, all my concentration is on the music, to stop emotion manifesting. When the piano begins to fade and the violin starts. There are tears. Then there he is. His smile is aluminous and it reflects over to me. He touches my head, I fall into his chest. I break again. ‘God I’m so sorry, I told you that I was rude, modern and rude. Please lets go home.’

It occurs to me that there is no difference between, how near? How far? That the length of both are as endless as each other and when I ask each question I realize how lost I am. And that I the longer I look the further away everything seems to be.

Did you kiss it? Ways out.

For over a year, I stopped recording. All the thoughts, seductive gestures and words exchanged.




Then I gave in, as I do too often and looked over this site. I no longer could stand the numbness of all the work I was doing. Reading over my harsh words I began living vicariously through my previous life, another previous I have grown out of. And concluded that all that had finished. Happily I am wrong. I had learnt to suppress and ignore, like all good young people do.
I have to believe there is still something romantic about my disposition that I can’t lose, some kind of modern optimism.

But then I watched a scene where she allows her eyes to sink into him, with love written all over her face. It is her vulnerability or lack of guardedness that I wish I could breath with. She was so unashamed, brave in herself. She touched him and said

“You knock my socks off.”

I want honesty in my character. Between myself and what it is that I am expecting.

I loved none of them. I looked at them all shyly and thought there was possibility with such negativity underlining it all. Love never grew or blossomed. It only inhabited in the beginning, superficially like a hangover; for the longer I stayed the less I seemed to be able to give, give up and even possibly worse, let go. I talk so courageously of pouring hearts and blazing organs but I feel no such things. Blue coats and yellow vests have become something of a uniform, something of a concrete armor. What is worse is that I watch myself complete the cycle every time. I look for ways out, moments to disappears into. I am so unsuccessful.

I didn't write that right...

I talk about boys as waves or storms. That they come crashing or cause havoc. There is one, that works like a mist. He is so silent and so attractively inoffensive what when he kissed me I thought my world was growing. Growing in lust. Which is why I can’t forgive myself for forgetting him and even letting him go time after time. For someone I neither understand and feel totally closed off to. It is totally selfish when I say I feel no displacement with him. I am nothing but myself in his company. No second guessing or harsh words to digest about my worries or self-loathing characteristics all the others felt so happy to laugh at me with. There is no sign of judgment, though I know there is, which is why I write about him instead of... And why he is just other one, on the ever growing list. Growing lists. Ever growing lists, of smiles and kisses, scares, weaknesses and disappointments.

HE IS CHOCOLATE

He is so sweetly satisfying. He is chocolate. When words fail me too often. I find the perfect words here, for this one. HE IS CHOCOLATE. I am the gazer, I watch from afar afraid in hope he is not aware at how awkward and suspicious I feel. I know he doesn’t see me, that I belong to a crowd but watch him move around his space, with such ease, it makes me want to lick the small trial of hair that runs up his stomach. I wonder if he has a girlfriend, with her own dirty thoughts, in her beautiful brain. She IS so beautiful and so happy and natural, everything I am not, I imagine. I imagine that I will forever be invisible.

All so emptying...

Do I feel his silent surprise, or his eyes on my hips as he follows me up stairs? When we shake hands on our goodbye, is there a cut off moment when our hands have been clasped for too long?

wrong, Wrong, WRONG