The sounds of aquariums and water tanks can make a person go insane with repetitive boredom. It also makes my heart lonely, thoughts travelling across a pale white plain, crossing over a rounded mountain top, and then reaching the realm of the vocal cords. But they have long since forgotten the Siren’s Song.
I miss you, dove. I miss your ethereal caresses and night-time whispers. I miss your beautiful smile, which shined in a world full of darkness.
You shined for me in my dreams.
Could there be a moment when the sea sighs, I want to be there; Oh my mother—Earth—and bright father—Sun—how dear you are to me, for you taught me freedom of the soul.
And—sometimes I cannot help but loathe the tempest in my heart, the way my blood courses hot and thick through me, feline & feral. I am impetuous, fervent, ardent in my affections. And in the moments you stared at me with glacial eyes and rough hands caressed my milk-clad hip, the inner tigress in my bones purred. How could any woman with so much fire and conflagration combusting under her skin practise patience, practise control? My stars I want you, my bones were humming. Do you think this is wise? I could have whispered. We need to wait, I should have said.
Instead I dug my nails into your shoulders and kissed you, because patience and prudence can’t quell the raging, rolling maelstrom surging in my veins. Just you, just me, just us—and these atomic kisses that set forests on fire.
I am incandescent, a tiger woman to my core, all sparks and tinder under this cool façade. My heart burns as its own raging pyre, set aflame from one glance of cool blue and skin against skin.
If I could rewind the tick-tick
I would stop at the juncture
where my fingers
ran up the length of your spine and
small nails dug into your shoulders.
I would bask in the moments where
the pale moonlight illuminated your
skin in the darkness and
the sheets smelled of you—
and my head swam in a sea
of heady intoxication.
I would linger between the hours
where my cheek rested
on your chest and your hand wove
tangled nests into my hair.
And if I could break the tick-tock
I would hover at the apex
of these little moments
—in the throes of an inebriating night
I would whisper—
words petal rounded—
lips velvet clad—
‘I love you’
and I wish you could have loved me, too.
& when we meet for the first time, i’ll be red-lipped and jasmine scented, arterial red and black forming a spiraling corona around my head. & i hope you know the forest and the sea surges in my veins; i hope you appreciate the molecular stardust in my heart.
I asked him if he read literature, if poetry spoke to his heart. He laughed at me, called me too serious, never realising he was too blind to see that in those words lie the essence of the human soul, distilled down and poured onto paper. “You just want a warm body,” I said to him, “and I am so much more. I’m foxfire and poetry with stardust in my veins. You’ll simply never know.”
Dating other men while missing you is like trying to replace the sun with a torchlight.
They all pale miserably against you, singular star that you are—lighting my heart on fire.
these days they
slide by and
my love of you is
the sun in winter—
i know it’s burning but
i can no longer
feel the heat.
I stumbled out of bed last night, delirious and drunk on sleep and dreams; I knew with every swaying shuffle, every slow blink in the dark, that I had reached the dénouement of our story. I knew with the certainty that one can only have after many hours of dreamwalking that this chapter between us was over—unfinished, but over. Like a great ship stranded at sea for far too long, we were sinking down into the dark abyss—sinking so deep not even the fish would ever visit the watery grave of our memories.
I’m releasing my feelings for you, letting you go like floating flowers and candles on the great Ganges. This is my offering, my reliquary heart—I filled it so full to the brim, full to bursting, full of you.
And now it floats on, burning, small and flickering—a singular flame in the dark.
This is our dénouement, and it is burning.
I dream of rain
and other lost things —
the windows were broken