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.

Possibilities

She wakes up this morning knowing she will be happy. There is a space inside of her and beyond her where an infinity of possibilities just dancing in front of her eyes.

There was that moment when she left him the other day in the morning. That precise moment very short, very furtive when she knew. What she knew, what she felt was common to her a long time ago, the time when she was in love. When she left his apartment, when they kissed goodbye, when he held her in his arms, she knew that love has hit her. Gently, softly but very clearly. And that was just it. Like an evidence. Not a surprise. She did not think of what could happen after that feeling. Would it work out between them ? Would they be available for each other ? Would he love her back ? These questions were not relevant as the present moment, the moment of this new-born love, was more important. She was honest to herself. She accepted to be in love. With him and with them and with their story. In this space where they are and where they were, anything can be possible. They are who they are, and they can be no one, and anything could happen to them, as long as there is this connection and intimacy. Because to be anything else, first there should be a connection.

Even knowing that she could get hurt or she could suffer, the suffering is still part of this infinity of possibilities. They have found each other. Somehow, somewhere in their lost souls and extreme loneliness, they have met and they have made space for each other. Short moments, long moments, intense moments they gave to each other. The kisses. The talks. The gazes. The naked bodies. What they offered to each other was never insignificant. Their lives so apart and yet so close, close in the search for another soulmate, or simply for a beautiful connection.

She wakes up this morning, accepting that kind of destiny. The kind of destiny that includes the love for him or the beginning of the love for him. Her heart is full. That is how she starts her day. In a space of infinite possibilities and he is one of them.

You held my hands…

I have been unable to write after this concert with you.

You love the sound of guitar so I chose this concert for you. It was in the Catedral of our city. Saturday night.

You held my hands during the whole concert. When this piece of Piazzolla was played, my hands were in yours. The music of Piazzolla is one of my favorites. I have always loved tango music. It makes me feel melancholic. Sometimes even sad. I have never wished to listen to Piazzolla and my favorite piece “Milonga del Angel” with you by my side. I wanted to post on my blog right after the concert to describe how I felt. Then I could not so I just kept it to myself.

I wish everyone in this world could have the same moment. The Catedral was magical that evening. You touched my hands right after the first piece. And you did not let them go. During the break, you kissed me lightly on my right cheek, then on my hair and my forehead. I posed my head on your left shoulder. You kissed my hands. The two hands. Indifferently, left then right.

You kept my hands after the break. Now they played Bach. The same magic. Or even more. You moved closer to me. Even.

You held my hands that night, the whole night. You did not let me go. We could sleep in a single bed and still had enough space.

I fell asleep in your arms. My hands in yours. I could still hear Piazzolla and Bach. And also your breathe.

Nothing alien

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“You said you’re going far away. How far away are we talking about?”
“It’s a distance that can’t be measured.”
“Like the distance that separates one person’s heart from another’s. (IQ84 – Haruki Murakami)

Do you hear her screaming?

Do you feel her fear?

Do you hear her crying?

Do you feel her suffocating?

Penetrating screams

Convulsive warm tears

In her dream

Aliens abduct her love

He says goodbye and gets in the vessel

It was just a dream

Just a dream

That meant nothing

So why all the screams and tears and breathless fainting

She loves him

The kind of love

That abducts her life

That gets into her bones and skin

At night

That kind of love

Nothing alien

So real it is

Makes her breathe

Leaves her breatheless

That kind of love

Nothing alien

So true it is

Anything is possible

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Have you ever seen deep blue sky with thunders?

Have you ever seen a rainbow before the rain?

Have you ever felt the summer heat before spring?

Have you ever seen tropical parrots in a winter park?

Have you ever seen snow flakes in summer?

Have you ever seen fishes singing, cats flying, dogs smiling?

I am in a dream?

I am on stage?

I am in the Jurassik Park?

I am in the Hollywood Studio?

Anything is possible

The universe at my feet

I see him tonight

The enemy of love: Fear

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I have been coward

I was scared to death

I overanalysed

I thought twice then three times then four times

I reasoned my emotions

I repressed my feelings

I did not see him yesterday

Fear – nonsense fear

Fear over love

I have dreamt for months of touching his face

I have dreamt for days of hearing his voice

Hearing his stories

Devillish fear

And worst of all

The fear was so powerful

I even had no regrets

Loving him is simple and beautiful

Yesterday the fear took it all

Accursed fear stronger than my love

In one second loving him has become complicated

Bathing in hopeless fear

The young samurais

dream

“The answer is dreams. Dreaming on and on. Entering the world of dreams and never coming out. Living in dreams for the rest of time.” (Sputnik Sweetheart – Haruki Murakami)

Someone says that dreams are not something we see while sleeping, dreams are something that keeps us awake.

My dreams are not the ones described by H. Murakami. I don’t enter the world of dreams and stay in there. I dream of concrete projects which give me energy to move.

Lately I see my life surrounded by people and children of different nations. I see myself with them sharing my books, my favorite movies and music. I see myself reading poems to kids in their language, I see myself teaching kids to write poems. I see myself sharing my love of movies to them. I would like to see them excel in Asian art martial. I will call them: “my junior samurais”. They will be dreamers like me.

This idea keeps me awake. I know I would get there to realize my dreams. I have the energy and the enthusiasm for that. At this point of my life, I have the feeling that it makes a lot of sense this precise dream of sharing.

Yesterday I realized that the love for him, though immense, is never enough to complete me. I need to love more than one person. I have the love for the whole earth and the need to spread it out.

Call it a dream or not. It makes sense to me.

I have the image of the young samurais in my head. Young heroes reading poems in laughs. Beautiful dreams make beautiful dreamers.

When? Where? How?

I will get there.

The ears

“…Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you… So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones… That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine… (Haruki Murakami)

Define being high – have you ever been high without drugs?

Define being in love – that feeling, the closest to getting high, without drugs.

You are on the clouds, suffering is not in your vocabulary, you fly, you float, you are light, you lose focus, you are not weak; you get stronger.

In love and high.

I was lack of sleep for months. His mails usually arrived around 5am in the morning; my brain and body were programmed to open my eyes at 4.59 am, then I could never fall asleep again. I started to get high at 5 am.

I was supposed to see him again sometime in the middle of the year, in June. I stopped counting the days that separated us. Days, months, time passed by so quickly for me and anybody else, except the time within us – him and me. Weekdays were long, weekends were long, nights a nightmare, days full of casual things with other people which made me move and laugh. One morning in early May, his mail arrived at 5am with a bomb effect. He announced his early return due to some emergency. I acknowledged the news at 5.01 am and felt for the first time, since our time apart, a great pain on my chest. It was because the timing could not be any worse. Two days after his return, I needed to get out of the country for some emergency on my side. The whole time he was back in the country, I was outside the country. Fate, destiny, call it whatever name you like. It hit me like a storm. The storm is in me, outside of me, everywhere.

Reacting when you are high is never a good idea. You hardly know what is right, what is wrong. You try to be rational, you try to get some sleep again; and mostly you try to act adult. My head was a mess. The inside of it that morning was like all the wires hidden behind a thousand of computers or actually it was exactly like all the wires that I have tried to hide for months behind my huge TV and the super sophisticate surround home movie (a buy recommended by a geek friend). Even worse. I was in my bed when his mail arrived. Development of some worrisome scenarios. I calculated his possible time on the plane, his trip, when he landed, when I got myself on the plane, when I took off and how two people with such unfortunate destiny could somehow meet each other in a real cloud (yes, not the one in my head when I am high). It became difficult. Think of a bomb with a ticking clock, programmed to be exploded one minute to another, and the yellow, blue, red wires impossible to be unraveled. Imagine a situation where only a Jack Bauer could do something about it; and that was me that morning with no Jack Bauer.

I knew he could only arrive with one flight connection at 5pm the next afternoon. Being in a very no-man’s  land of a relationship where we are friends, or free lovers, or lovers living apart (again my relationship could not fit any normal definition – the only thing which was clear for me from the beginning was that my heart was in command, and my rationality has surrendered long time ago and I was always high when it came to anything related to him), the issue with the “no-definition” and the “no name” relationship with a man who has made you high for almost 200 days on the row, was that, in that particular situation, you would never know if you could show up at the airport just to say hi. Definitely a “no-no” or a “yes-yes” or a “what the hell, I will do it anyway”.

After the breaking news, I went to work, acted normal but could not concentrate. I had one chance to see him before my trip: at the airport. Going to the airport could make me a real stalker, a crazy chick, an immature lady. In public, in daylight, forever, in front of him. Yes, because I don’t care being a stalker, a crazy nuts chick as long as it is in my apartment, in front of my bathroom mirror; I can handle a huge amount of ridiculous in my head, virtually, with words but not out loud, in actions and in front of people, and most of all, at the airport.

During the whole afternoon, I cogitated. The clock on the bomb was still ticking. To be at the airport at 5pm I was supposed to leave my office at 4.30pm, the latest. At 3pm I was still in the dark. I would use some daisies and tear off its petals to play the: “I am going to the airport”, “I am not going to the airport”, “I am not going and I will regret”, “I am going and I will feel remorse”. Tic, tac, tic, tac, 3.30 pm. My hair was dirty, I had no nice make-up (it was a rainy day and normal day of work), I had my ugly old cowboy boots and that was the day that was supposed to meet him after ten weeks apart. I looked tired, ugly but still high. That’s the funniest thing of being in love. Love gives wings and lightness even in the heaviest dilemma. But I had to admit, at some point I did feel a bit dizzy that afternoon. Suddenly, no more imaginary daisies to tear off, I jumped out of my office chair, and headed to the airport without turning off my computer.

Two possibilities of arrivals of his flight: one on the Arrival 1, one on the Arrival 2. Some more imaginary daisies please! I opted for Arrival 1. Once in front of the arrival gate and seeing people getting out, kissing each other, I wanted to flee. Why was I here? Not possible. Wrong choice. Wrong number of daisy petals. What did I do? Why did I decide to go to the airport?? I looked at the people who were waiting. I said to myself, if someone among his friends or relatives was there, I would run off. I could not be there, my place was not there. But I did not know how they looked like. So again, I just stared at them and remembered what he used to tell me: “all of my friends are Turkish or Albanese or Serbian”. So I stared at one man, speculating that he was Turkish and speculating again he was his friend and then again I said to myself: “damn, he is his friend, am sure, I have to back off”. Hardly, I finished this sentence in my head, here he was. And of course, someone was there to pick him up. Not a Turkish young man, but an old Italian man. How could I figure that out just from staring at the people waiting at the gate?? Too late, I said hi. He was surprised I guess, and until now, I still hope it was a good surprise for him.

From the city to the airport, my heart was squeezed a few times. Waiting at the airport, the breathing became a little bit irregular and when he was there in front of me, the breathing stopped for a few seconds. He was nice, easygoing, cool as usual and tanned, more than usual. He was gorgeous and he was HIM, and that was enough. Writing any sentence from now starting with “he is” is not the aim of this short paper. He was there and I was breathless and voiceless. I probably looked stupid. I felt like a child, an adult, an old person, at the same time, all in one. He has the power of God, how could it be? In front of him, I am everything, young, old, ugly, beautiful, smart, stupid, anything.

The following hours were clear and blurred. I kept every minute of this meeting for myself. I had the feeling that if I put it down in words I would be able to remember it for a long time. But then suddenly I felt that silence would make it mine forever.

The “erotic density” of the Greek restaurant where we stopped by to have a coffee was more than “thick”, at least for me.

If I were a moviemaker I would film that unique scene: he showed me his scars and his swollen ears from some MMA combats and I touched them, gently and shyly with my fingers. If I were a poet, I would use all the words in the dictionary to describe this feeling. If I were a photograph, I would congeal and immortalize this image in one shot. That moment was the most erotic moment in any human history of sexuality.

We said goodbye after a few coffees. I went away for my trip. I was high for several days during my trip. He was my storm. He left the day I got back home after my trip.

Today, I still wake up at 4.59am in the morning. My fingers can still feel the soft skin of his ears. And the table in the restaurant putting a distance between our two bodies has a touch of foam. He was so close to me, it was just a distance of a table made of foam.

How about?

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How about a cup of coffee this morning my darling?

How about sharing your last night’s dream?

How about swimming with dolphins this afternoon my love?

How about dancing on the moon tonight?

How about you and me?

Plain, simple, poetic, alive

Crazy, delirious, unbelievable, tremendous

How about us?

Once again

 

I would marry him in white, in purple or in any color of the rainbow

photo-93Yesterday I was telling you that my love is calm. And sometimes it just sounds like a melody played by a flute. This morning I woke up at 7 because I had the feeling that my heart was beating so loudly when I thought of him in my sleep, in my dreams, that I needed to wake up. Yesterday I was telling you that my love did not suffocate me anymore. This morning I had to wake up because my heart did suffocate me. Consciously or not consciously, still asleep or not, I felt that my love was heavy and weights on my chest. But not in a negative way. Just physically. I love him so much. I just felt the weigh of that love, of my heart. Really. Physically.  I did not invent it. It is just a natural phenomenon. My love is big. The organ of love is the heart. So my heart weights.

Consciously or not consciously, maybe I was still asleep, I remember at 5 this morning, when I woke up the first time because of my heavy heart, I said to myself – I would ask him to marry me. I, who never once thought of marriage the last ten years. I would marry him in white, in purple, in pastel, in whatever color. I would marry him because people say that the marriage even though useless and is just a piece of paper, is supposed to be the ultimate proof of love. So if people say that, I would do it. If I could do anything to prove my love to him, I would do it. Because I just know that it would be the right thing to do. For me to sleep the whole night without waking up in the middle of it, for that heart to be less heavy, I need to sleep next to him. He would bear that love in my bed, helping me to take away the weigh of my heart. For me to hear the melody of that flute in my head again, I need to hold his hands while falling asleep.

My love is calm yet determined.

Yesterday I could live without him.

This morning the idea is an utopia.

*** Sculpture “Mujer meditando” (Woman on meditation) by José Kuri Brena