Lovers

She always knows exactly when the cab driver is going to turn left after the intersection. Her watch shows the same time, like any other evenings when she comes to his place. The last nine months. The cab driver stops exactly in front of the address she indicates. She always rings the bell of the building at around 20:00, sometimes 20:05, sometimes 20:10. The weather could be good or bad, rainy or blue sky, she always arrives at his place around that time. She never needs to ring the bell when she reaches the 3rd floor. He always leaves the door open. The TV is most of the time turned on when she enters the apartment. Most of the time he is there, waiting for her. He has his usual smile. He always greets her in a joyful way.

Winter has arrived the last two weeks, yet, his skin still gets this color of honey. He only lives in this city in the North a few days a week. The rest of the time, he is living in the South where the sun never stops shining. He must have spent his weekends under the sun or out there by the beach, or somewhere near the coast. He told her that he has recently bought a small fisherman boat. That would explain his all-year round tanned golden skin.

After all those months, she is still surprised she finds him each time that gorgeous. She is almost scared to become that superficial because she always finds him too handsome and that would be the only reason making her come to his place or liking him. His beauty, she takes it as a ray of sun, a snowflake, or even sometimes her own breathe. His features, his skin, his eyes. Once beautiful, always beautiful. That is what people say. A face that has lived the pleasure, the dreams and the impetuosity. She looks at him and wonders: “has he ever been hurt or vulnerable?” It is hard to tell. He is standing there, right across the kitchen, joking about his talent of cooking a unique tomato sauce. He is smiling to her. She looks at him and wonders: “has he ever hurt someone with this smile?” It is hard to tell. Maybe at some point, in his past, there have been some left scars for him and for others.

The questions she asks are not relevant or important. Every time they enjoy each other until exhaustion. Spontaneous physical passion. Kissing him is like licking a thousand flavor of ice cream all in one, trying to detect which flavor is the best. Each kiss, sweet and deep with his soft tongue, tastes like a small piece of roasted peach, having its own soul. It is like he knows that the only way to reach her is to kiss her.

The windows with no curtain, the lights from inside the apart show the shadows of them slowly taking off their clothes, guessing the steady desire of making love. They hold each other close, and never stop kissing. Their hands looking for their naked skin under the clothes, the skin that vibrates with each caress. There is a raging fire spreading through the room but also a controlled ardor to prolong the moment. They know they cannot leave until they finish consuming the heat inside them. Fire has sealed off all windows, leaving them only one thing to do: make love madly. This magical craziness of desiring someone so strong, the need of flesh so savage and so primitive. At least that is what she feels each time. There is always a moment when she loses consciousness of time and space, where am I? Am I on earth? Or in heaven? But there is always also a moment when she stops thinking and only focusing on her five senses, allowing her to fully feel each movement of his hips when he is inside her.

She starts to call him “the best” lately. He has become the best lover she has ever had. Lately, he puts on Bach when they make love. When she comes, several times each time they are together, she remembers exactly with which piece of Bach, which melodies, which instruments. Each time it is divine. Having an orgasm with him, with Bach music in the background, is self-redemption. That is what she knows and feels. When he is inside her, she feels like she has never made love before. She feels new and fresh. When he comes, his pleasure is intense. When they finish, it is not finished. The abnormal magical pleasures they feed each other turn other pleasures into some normal, insignificant ones. The red wine, the dish of pasta with his unique tomato sauce, a soccer game shown on television or a movie he chose but never gets to watch until the end.

Yet, they are different types, she guesses. He seems full of energy and ambition. Young, he would surely see the world as a scented fruit waiting to be eaten, as the world certainly has been opened up to him and his beauty easily. She is a nerd and, for her, life is something rational, like a cake with layers of cream, organized and sweet but predictable. She has learned with him not to ask lots of questions or to think too much. She always knows that most of men do not like women who think and ask too much questions. There is no frustration to not asking questions. On the contrary, it is a way to preserve mystery after having shared that fire of physical passion. She believes their differences increase their mutual attraction. They have developed a certain intimacy, not the physical one only, but also some closeness. It is quite unavoidable once they share a regular physical intimacy. But not asking too many questions keep them from falling in love. Because falling in love is letting go and they never really let go. The reasons behind it are multiple. One of them is that it is not easy to fall in love. It demands availability, willingness and there are not so many ways to fall in love but there are many ways to avoid it. But there might be one drop or two of loves or affection in there, when they are together, enough to feed, let’s say a bird or a plant. Who knows? And this does not mean that they do not care for each other. She cares about him and she believes he knows that without her formulating it. Should he ever need her if his close ones are not right beside him, he could always call her. After all those months, he might know that already.

It would be unfair to say it is just lust between them. To enjoy the sex with someone that much and the way they do, there must be more than just lust. The way she kisses him, it is like to show him how important he is in the world. The way she receives him inside her, it is like to acknowledge that he is creative and has such an imaginative mind. Look at the buildings he built, making love to him is like embracing those creations. You cannot make love with that kind of passion unless you soak up the other person’s thoughts, mind and dreams at the same time. Lying there on his bed, like a lizard basking in the sun, she can feel life in all the shades and tones. Each story of each person, once being someone’s lover is a fairytale, a variation of mental and physical unique experience. Self-discovery, experimental kissing, self-examination, orgasmic introspection; that is what it is, every single week, when they get a chance to see each other. There will be no boredom, there will be no routine as they have to re-invent themselves each time. Even the red wine tastes differently each time. The pasta sauce with another touch each time. The intensity of the kisses varies. The songs sung by their bodies sound differently each time. Without being sentimental, and even being in the distance, the differences are felt very profoundly.

The sublimation of the sexual desires is part of the beauty and the delight of the story, allowing them to go apart, living their lives separately after that. There is no sorrow but only longing until the next time they meet, that is totally salutary for them and the hopes that their desires will not expire too soon.

Lovers in all colors

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Before yesterday

Lovers under the sun

Yesterday

Lovers under the wind

Today

Lovers under the drizzle

Rainbow comes then disappear

Lovers in yellow

Lovers in blue

Lovers in white

Dancing waiting

Wondering

Swirling in the change of seasons

She is one of them

Dancing waiting

Not wondering

She is the lover who holds the rainbow

Standing still and strong

Defying the whirlwind

Offering him serenity

In the color of his choice

***

Painting “Lovers in blue” by Marc Chagall

Ask her if she prefers…

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Ask her if she prefers the warmth without him

Ask her if she prefers the sun without him

Ask her if she prefers summer 365 days a year without him

Ask her if she prefers the money, the luxury, diamonds and gold without him

The cold is warm with him

The rain is fun with him

The winter 365 days a year is easy to bear with him

With him life is simple

Appearances, superfluous values, materialistic dreams

Nothing counts, nothing matters

She shines with him in no diamonds and gold

With him she can live out of nothing

Like in the old days

When only love is enough

Like the French proverb:

“Living only out of love and fresh water”

Ask her if she prefers…

And the answer is already clear…

“I prefer nothing without him”

Sounds common

But that’s just it.

***

Painting “Lovers on the bench” of Marc Chagall (1911)

How could she leave him?

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“It’s a terrible story. We worked so hard, so hard, building our world one brick at a time. And when it fell apart, it happened just like that. Everything was gone before you knew it.” (Norwegian Wood – Haruki Murakami)

She woke up this morning at 4am. Staying in bed she stared at the ceiling and started to think. There are a thousand of reasons that make people leave their partners, the loved ones. The majority of them is linked to the loved one’s personality, to how they had disappointed the other one, to what extent they had hurt the other one. Yes, most of the reasons derive from the actions, the words of the loved ones.  Most of the times that is precisely the trigger. The actions, the words, the personality.

This morning she woke up and knew that she was going to leave him. She had never doubted about his personality. She had loved him all these years for that personality. She loved his essence, his philosophy of life. She loved everything he had in him. He had disappointed her more than once. He had hurt her more than once. She accepted him as he is. She knew from the beginning that she had been doomed to love him unconditionally. Nothing that came from him, even the ugliest thing or habit of him, nothing could ever make her fall out of love. It was that kind of certainty of love she had experienced right from the beginning of the story with him.

But today she will leave him. How come? How could she leave him? Has she become insane after one night ? Has she lost her mind? She wants to be generous in love. She wants to love him more. She wants to be free to love him the way she wants. She wants to love him without strategy, without calculation. And she realizes that if she stays, for her love to survive she needs to be misely, to be less generous, to be common. To calculate. To resist. And she really hates it. She will need to jeopardize her whole personality to be with him. She will have to be someone else, someone whom she disregards; someone she will despise.

She had never realized that in spite of his amazing personality in everything in life, he had no capacity of receiving love. In everything else, he was exceptional. In receiving love, he was common and weak. He did not know how to prosper in love. He did not evolve in love. He was not receptive to beautiful gestures and feelings. Accepting him was fine for her. Staying with him and witnessing his insensitivity to love would perish her sooner or later. His space for love was narrow, incongruous. Her love for him was trapped in this narrowness. She felt imprisoned. Her love could not escape. Sooner or later it would become tasteless and common if she would not take care of it. Urgently.

She got out of her bed. She was not different from other people. Finally the reason that made her leave would be the same as that of anyone else. There was something from him. Indeed, this perfect personality. Her soul mate. He seemed to have a defect too. He did not know how to receive her love. Call it clumsiness, immaturity, selfishness, whatever. The fact remains that she could not stay to see their relationship turn into something common. She would never allow such deterioration.

The love will last forever. She knew it. And so do the perfection of this love. Call it dreamer, utopia, unrealistic, immaturity, whatever. That is just how she loves. The only way she knows.

Morning scream in music

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A midnight blue, day and night
I’ve been missing you
I’ve been thinkin’ about you, baby
Almost makes me crazy
Come and live with me

Times, nothing’s right, if you ain’t here
I’ll give all that I have just to keep you near
I wrote you a letter, I tried to make it clear
That you just don’t believe that I’m sincere
I’ve been thinking about you, baby

Times, nothing’s right, if you ain’t here
I’ll give all that I have just to keep you near

I’ve been thinkin’ about you, baby
I want you to live with me

This morning I woke up. Definitely calmer than yesterday. Or at least it was the first impression. As soon as my eyes got the first light of the day from a tiny slit of the shutter, an acute pain squeezed my chest but short, quick pain. I projected myself to the future. Something I have never done for months now. Thinking of the future. The thought of the future. Future that meant to be in five week time. When he will be leaving again. His date of departure has not yet been set. But its certainty is undeniable.

I put on this song of Massive Attack. I just discovered it a few days ago. The song penetrated my skin, soaked into my bones. I felt cold. The voice was groaning and moved me deep. Maybe it was circumstantial but each word was cutting me into pieces. “A midnight blue, day and night I’ve been missing you I’ve been thinkin’ about you, baby Almost makes me crazy Come and live with me Times, nothing’s right, if you ain’t here I’ll give all that I have just to keep you near I want you to live with me “.  I could groan in a same hoarse voice mixed with sobs and tears and nobody could distinguish the sadness of the song or that of my soul.

I felt another round of punches. I squeezed tight my pillow, put it over my stomach and wrapped myself, smothered under the blanket. Acute pain, longer, more insistent. He will go away soon. I stayed in the fetus position, my way to protect myself from suffering. For a long while. I could hear the ticking sound of the alarm clock. Like a count-down. Each ticking seemed to count the days left before he is gone again. Each regular ticking sound mixed with the deep regular moaning sound of the song in perfect harmony, sentencing the end of my happiness. For a short while, I had the feeling that I had flirted with a slow death. The feeling of losing him again. Seeing him going away. Again. Seeing him going in another direction, in another part of the world. In this big world we had crossed paths for a second. Just for a second. I heard myself screaming. I screamed the unfairness of life. Of love. Of everything.

The scream lasted with the last note of the song. I disappeared in my large bed. No more sound suddenly. The room fell into silence. But I could still hear my love for him.

What is left to do…

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I am officially depressed.

What is left to do is to collect all the snow flakes, keep them preciously in a box in a perfect temperature so they cannot melt and give them to you in summer.

What is left to do is to count my footsteps on the snow and be sure that it would be less than a billion of them until I reach you.

What is left to do is to close my eyes and be sure that your shadow will always dazzle in the dark.

What is left to do is to wallow on the snow and be sure that only the heat of my heart can save me from the cold.

What is left to do is to eviscerate myself before the feeling of missing you would empty me anyway.

I am officially depressed or I love you into depression.

How can I know ?

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(Painting of Edvard Munch “The Day After” , National Museum of Oslo)

In a nonfunctional universe

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Wilted flowers cover the field

Green leaves falling down from trees

The river empty of water

Dry stones from the bottom

Heavy blue clouds ready to cry

The sad expression of the clown

Children who do not laugh at the circus

Horses at a weak gallop

Eagles with no impetus

Wine tastes like water

Her gaze sweeping emptiness

Her lips still sore of his kisses

Her hero just left

She saw herself roving without gravity

In a disordered

Nonfunctional universe

Until the next time

He is back

(Painting of Edvard Munch – Kiss – National Museum of Oslo)

Love’s dialogues

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He : “Why do you like writing on the blog?”

She: “Because I need to scream my love for you somewhere otherwise I could suffocate.”

***

She: “You know that I wanted so much to send you hearts on the Valentine’s day but then I said to myself: No, I should not. Then remember I only sent to you some huge red girly hearts the next morning.”

He: “Why do you think that much? Next time just send me whatever you feel like and whenever you feel like.”

***

She: “I can write to you everyday, telling things, a lot of things I want to share. Is it too much?”

He: “No, it’s perfect”

***

She: “Don’t you think I am calmer and more peaceful this year, I think less. Don’t you see that?”

He: “You have always been calm and peaceful, I love the way your positive vibe get to me.”

***

He: “What are you going to do today?”

She: ” I don’t know yet but I will go to the movie with your mom tomorrow for sure.”

He: “Yes, and doing some lady-stuff as usual, right. But it’s good.”

***

He: “Do you believe in true love?” (singing along with the music resonated in the room)

She: “Yes, I do. It’s you.”