Stubborn

Your version of love is long silences and cruel words.
It stems from a pain you do not know what to do with. 
You haven't healed, refuse to heal, build a monument to sorrow in your chest and heart and head and life and just refuse to heal. 
To help yourself. To be whole.
In your half-century aftermath, you've dragged to the earth, like an avaricious sinkhole everything good and pure. 
You've killed love. You've killed hope. You've killed joy. 
You've halted celebration right in its birthday tracks.
You're grieving and grieving and grieving and your ocean of tears is so mind-bogglingly vast, that it has swept everything up and left nothing in its wake. 
No flotsam. 
No jetsam. 
No islands of broken hearts treading the water, anchorless.

Hiraeth

One night we are sitting at dinner. The table is plain. The crockery is white. The glasses are burgundy, the water is drunk. Over a frugal meal of rice and lentils, he tells me the same old story of lush rice fields and his mother’s eyes. We sleep satiated, in more than one way.
The next morning, my hand reaches out on the cheesecloth sheet and clutches air. He is gone. And I am alone. All day I wander in the garden where the bees are dunk on promise and the flowers blush with possessiveness. I talk to your beloved roses, but they are aware that I do not care too much for them, not like you do. I am the only woman whom you will allow the roses to adorn. Wrapped in my hair, spread on the bed, sprinkled on my pathway.
The ducks come looking for you, missing your shouts and hearty hey-hos. The cat wander and by and climbs into my ample lap, preferring my flesh to your bones. The dog is faithful as always but I can tell, he wonders about you.
At night, I set out a single place mat. It’s made out of rushes and is yellow and brown. I use my fancy china, the one you find pretentious. And my glass has rose´. I can’t bear rice. It is stone fruit and chocolate and rose cookies. I have the radio on. 
Around me the darkness is a breathing person.
I shall do this every day, and one day, my fingers will reach out and there you will be with your repentant mouth and sad eyes. We will go back to the before roles.
Till the next time. Till the next time my love, when the world and I are too much for your solitude.

Hiraeth: a longing for a ‘home’ you can't return to, or one that was never yours.

Camel's Back

Denial. Anger. Grief. 
Which stage are you in and when did you begin. 
When did you know that love has let go and you are really, undoubtedly quite alone. 
We know most times when love begins, but so rarely agree on love's demise. 
It's when we are cut down to size that we may sometimes surmise that all has ended. 
Then we wind the clock back or try to. 
We trace back to one instance one emotion one event that killed things asunder. 
What was the last straw? 
What was the end event. 
What was the one unforgivable act that has brought you to this stage. 
Where you contemplate self-harm and the yellow pages for shrinks. 
As if anyone or anything could fix the broken pieces of your faith. 
But it's more than faith. 
It's the heart. And the hurt. 
And the loss of innocence and dreams that carries away chunks of who we are with it.
Who is touched by heartbreak and emerged unscathed? 
Who remains unchanged ?

Dominion

Kill the bastard who crushes your heart.

Bury his heart deep is the desert where even the most desperate famine-stricken coyote will not deign to find it. Sink it so far into the abyss that no light will reach it for light years.

Cut out that tongue that maims you and then let him loose in the world. Let the tongue thrash about on the hot stone, intolerable of its own mute inability to articulate crass thoughts and a sheer lack of manners or class.

While you're at it , make his eyes better. Use a magic potion or belladonna or anything that can wreck miracles. Make it so so he can see what a fool he is so filled with such dark melancholy that can chase away even an unguarded soul like yourself. His loss , don't forget to remind him.

Burn his memories in some good top-of-the-line high-grade wood. An incinerator will also do. But wood is classic , wouldn't you say? And you need classic to ensure this sticks.

Because I don't know about you, babe , but your friends are mighty tired of your toing and froing. So get yourself together and make this one the last one. And the one that lasts.

Burn every moment, every memory, every photograph, every song, every flower, every mountain, every kindness, every single kiss long and deep, small and half- minded, every forgetfulness, every unkind word. Burn it all and bathe in the fumes and the smoke and the heat and the sweat and the spirit of it all.

Rediscover. You're more than him. You're more than he will ever be.

Burn too. And when you're done , that's how you'll be done with him.

Rest in peace. You sad sad man.

Cat/Kind of cream

He is her house. The water in her well. The snakes in her kitchen. He is the stuff of her aspirations and the rest of her retirement. He is the expensive sheets and the buffet breakfast. He is the routine holiday and the bad taxi drive. He is the ride home. The flight to the mountains. The many stops on the way. 

He is her diamonds. Her clothes. Her shoes. Her slutty make-up. He is her ease. Her nonchalance. He is her many men. He is her bitch. Her spittoon. Her slave. She snaps her fingers. He obeys. She makes a face. He stays. She sleeps around. He obeys. He's turned on. 

Welcome to their marriage. She has her fun. He stays. He pays. He hides. He runs. He tries. He does not explain. He claims. He hopes. He loves. He pretends to.

He is a lost cause. 

Pussy - whipped. 

So what's it to you?

Starting Once More

It is easy to unneed. 

Put your phone away to begin with. This is imperative and a non- negotiable first step. Put it away. Ah. You're being cute now. Alright, put away any communication device right now. Your phone, the computer, the laptop, the pads and the tablets and the pods and the posts and the feeds. Put it all away. Shut it down. Disconnect. Go to a different room. I mean, physically get up and go. Do so after you've silenced the noises on the aforementioned devices. We will deal with the screaming inside you in just a bit. Hold on.

Now. In the other room, the other space, city, country, do not close your eyes. No that's a bad idea because when you do, what do you see? Yes. Him. So eyes wide open, take in the world around you.

There's the neighbour's clothesline. The sheets are regularly washed. Hmm. That makes you think. Is it a small child or is it love? There are new jacaranda flowers on that young tree in the patchwork garden ahead. You breathe deep- consciously, eyes open, not sighing- but you can't smell the fragrance yet. Be patient. You have nowhere to go. Neither does the tree.

Perhaps where you are, you can see unforgiving mountains, almost black and white in their beauty. Imposing and cold. It's not just the snow that makes you shiver. I know, I get it. Maybe the sand under your feet is wet and clings. It doesn't make your heart sing and you can't wait to be clean. But you see the sand. And smell the seaweed. Good. That's good.

No, I don't want to know that you can smell the desperation behind the souls enmeshed in the water. Those who cling and those who walked further. I don't want to know that the sea ,at times , is the same shade as his eyes.

We are trying to un-need here, remember ?

In the other room that you are, now close your eyes. Think about all the things you wanted to do but didn't have time to. Think about every mean thing that has been said or done to you. No, just by him. Don't be a drama queen. Now listen to the voices inside you. Yes, I know you thought I had forgotten. Listen and be ruthless. Each one that tells you that you need him, go snip snip snip at its vocal chords. Each that tells you to find yourself, embrace and internalise. Soon, you'll get the hang of it. The discard and the keep piles will be discrete and obvious. You'll know what has to go.

Don't go back to the phone. Even if you don't have the number, you'll still wonder.  Don't look at the pictures. Don't stalk. Don't think. Just listen to the voice that says, unneed. Unneed. Unneed.

Unneeded. No, not you. Him. 

Not you. Never you.

You're a goddess. Now, embrace it. 

Slow dance

We've been performing the dance for a while now. It has the intensity of the salsa and the slow sexiness of the waltz. It's passionate and cold all at once. Depending on the day and the weather it feels sweaty like humidity and soft like rain. It feels right like love and wrong like love.

The dancers bow in the soft light. To each other and to what might be. The curtains stand witness to this peculiar enactment. The air is loaded with questions, worries and anxieties. But the arms that hold you close feel so right.

There is music playing, too softly. You strain your ears to catch a note and realise what you're doing. It's about the  person you're with. Not the song. Even silence makes for a lovely slow dance.

Your head rests on his shoulders. Your arms go around his waist. You feel his fingers on your back and smile as he takes a deep breath of you.

Should we make a pretence of dancing. We should. We move, slowly. Praying that phones don't ring, we aren't needed, that the world doesn't need us. That nothing should cut into this dance. Legs move, arms too. You bury your face in his neck. He feels warm and his pulse,just a little ragged. Your fingers touch his heart. It's an intimate gesture. And you feel what it does to him. He has no idea what you're thinking feeling living.

You move in closer. He does too. The dance stops. Even as the music plays on.

Forget the questions. Forget the futility of it all. Don't question what it is and isn't. Quell that hungry aching heart that wants and needs. Just. breathe. him. in.

Standing there in that space with him holding you like he's serious, is all you can do right now. And all you've ever wanted to do. 

Just dance.