© Alexandra Pavlova 2015
blog: Alexandra’s Blog
© Cassi Moghan 2015
blog: Cassi Moghan Photography
Such a weird language…
I’ve never met it before.
The daft sequence of tenses.
My patience has snapped
and Google Translate fucked up.
I close my eyes and
start to read with my fingers.
I read with my lips and tongue.
I’m a skilled linguist.
I flatten conjugations.
I lick up diphthongs.
That’s how I’ve learnt this language
in which your face is written.
© unbolt/Tetiana Aleksina 2015
We think those lyrics are cheesy; dreams, love, lights flickering, a pulse beating fast. It’s exactly what it feels like. The words suddenly make sense, the voices inviting. Blood pounding in my ears, I’m waiting and I’m watchful- should it feel like I’m touching 18 once again? It’s a blast from the past; the hope, the awkward smiles, the silence stretching out but no one leaves.
For me, was it the smile that crinkled at the corners of his mouth? The shine that lit his eyes? Infatuation… It’s a strange thing. I liked his presence, his walk- leaning back into the breeze a little, almost flowing but solid, steady. It’s when the music swelled in my mind, I swear I could hear the chords slamming. It’s when the lights played out to a vibrato that shook the air, that almost shimmered. I would have walked straight into those arms, had to grasp myself awake, out of the pleasant daydream, out of the inevitable.
Maybe, just maybe, our paths will cross again.
Image and text © Jza 2015
blog: Sometimes Penguins
Sometimes I wonder, I wonder a lot. What do we yearn for? What do we miss the most? Is our love for someone else a reflection of our own need for love?
What do I yearn for, what do I want and what do I need? Is it all too different?
When I think, I imagine him sitting there, waiting for me. I imagine walking in after a warm day (the days are always warm in my mind). I walk in, I’m slightly damp from my long walk, my hurry to reach home. Partly because I want to be in the cool shade of my home; mostly because I know he will be waiting.
I want to see him. It’s harder to wait every passing minute. I want to walk right in, slip off my sticky cardigan, I want to tell him the funny and strange things I saw on my way. He is the one who will listen, I know. He will laugh, as I know he did the last time, he always does. We are one mind after all. I know I will gibber back and forth, endlessly, nonsensical things- a dog grinning, a street performer trying his luck, a chance acquaintance and the bag he was carrying from a woman’s store! What could it mean, the mystery, the gossip, the daily things.
The comfort of peeling back my sweater, slipping off my pumps, and looking in the fridge for a cool drink; that’s the comfort I miss. The comfort of the home I shared with someone. The dusky lights of the approaching evening, the slight talk of what to cook. His stomach may grumble and my instincts will drive me to chop some onions and drop some butter in the pan. Soon, the small kitchen will smell like garlic, like the sharp hint of a crispy memory; tangy and bitter but so much needed and so strong.
But then, the visions will change. The garlic will rot. The pan will burn, the water will bubble garishly, gurgling, ferocious. Like steam bursting forth from a cooking pot, the hurt will wash over, paint my home in red, in rust, in darkness. Each word will be like a slice from a knife, cutting through, peel after peel, chopped up in tiny bits until the truth of what was no longer exists. The food will go stale, the trash will sit ignored. And the ignorance will grow, and it will turn into indifference. One night spent on the couch, one night outside, one night in a different place entirely.
Sooner or later, the visions will change. The smell and sight of a happiness gone by, the feeling of being held will be the grip of talons, digging into my skin. And even in the midst of such wholesome pain, the words will hurt the most.
© Jza 2015
© lostfunzone (dothob) 2015