CURIO(S∆)

the north isn't true (until it's leading me to you)

[apoemaday]

Welcome Home

by Warsan Shire

all the girls you’ve ever loved, i think i loved them too. interlude for the grand sonata every mouth you’ve ever kissed was just practice all the bodies you’ve ever undressed and ploughed into were preparing you for me. i don’t mind tasting them in the memory of your mouth they were a long hallway a door half-open a single suitcase still on the conveyor belt was it a long journey? did it take you long to find me? you’re here now, welcome home.

[ever-same]

i took one look at you and went, 'oh. i'm going to love you aren't i?'

[teaforchutney]

vi.

For hours on end, I swam in the relentless sea, picking apart the sunlight and water, watching ships pass.

So, with poetry in my lungs and a song in my heart, I sat brooding on the charmed wave.

—-

vii.

Finally, the ocean nudged me back to the shore, says sympathetically, “You are tired, jaded. But it does not mean you should give up. Go, live your life.

There is nothing for you here in my waters. There will be more days; you must thrive, not just survive. Come back here unafraid, and I will tell you stories.”

[teaforchutney]

rented spaces.

I like apartments, boarding houses. I like the anonymity they provide, their empty air, because the emptiness is not lonely, bereft of leaving. Unoccupied chairs, every step of the stair, bamboo couch, all of these filled with a sense of returning, of coming home.

To date I have stayed, for short intervals, short vacations, in four separate apartments. Always, a space rented by my mother working in Cavite or Manila. During my stays in these spaces (always with my older sister), I will sit or lie still in front of the TV, watching borrowed CDs, listening for the remote arrival and departure of faceless boarders in the opening and closing of doors. We never interact, there is no need to. This little country bumpkin has learned that in big cities like the never-ceasing Manila, a modicum of communication between strangers is the best and practiced amount.

Everywhere there are ghosts of existence, presence. The haphazard clothes thrown around, the organized space of cramped bags and shoes, the invisible boundary of ‘this-is-mine-and-that-is-yours’. The appliances and the corners retain the memory of people. One can feel it even in the sleepy afternoons, through closed doors, in the wind blowing through the open window.

So for hours and hours on end, I watch and try to suffuse myself in the dwelling(s) I don’t belong to. I found that I do not fit in these spaces, for I am an invader of sorts where my mother rents. This made me happy and like apartments/boarding houses even more. Because there is a slight feeling of wanting to feel how it is to live outside my own space, in a place where I am unknown, like living outside of my own skin.

[teaforchutney]

in the corner, where it is empty

I guess it was only eventual, that I let myself imagine she was you. It’s only because you let me.

All the rushed kisses, the ghost of fever-touches, the question burning brightly beneath your eyelids, ‘am I holding you just as tight as she did?' And I can never answer because I can never know the difference between loving and being loved. Leaving and being left.

I dream that your arms are actually hers, your voice her whisper that’s already half-gone even before you’ve finished it. And whenever I walk out the door, I imagine that she is you, running to cling to my back, crying. And I will say, Now you know how it feels to be the one left behind.

[teaforchutney]

The lake is a watery moon gathering light from the street lamps. You are gone but everywhere lurks the ghost of you. In the cold park bench roofed by the willow tree, the city streets I walk with haste (with mock, mocking purpose), even in the reflection of the lake that is a watery moon.

Keep reading

[teaforchutney]

let the words go out the door, silence has held them for so long.

My best friend has chosen to take her words out from under the bed. 

confessions, little thoughts, stories

[teaforchutney]

you are the caffeine dip in my coffee cup.

[teaforchutney]

NO MATTER HOW MUCH THIS HEART WANTS TO RUN, THE ROAD WILL HAVE TO WAIT. SO FOR NOW, A FORTRESS IN BOOKS.

[teaforchutney]

I'm afraid of not knowing how to keep what I don't want to lose.

[teaforchutney]

I'd put you in my pocket but I'm afraid you'll get lost among the spare words I keep in it.

[teaforchutney]

THE HUE OF HIS SHIRT, MAROON NUMBER 5 

I only know you from my dreams. Happy dreams saturated with snapshots of the lulling sea, of shared sleep, of morning light.

Your name is Gus and I’d like to think we are friends, with you visiting me occasionally with beautiful vistas, your heart-lifting light.

/ 

In one encounter, we are sitting by the shore. You are reading a book while I am trying to read the story of your frowned mouth, the squint of your eyes. The scene is of simplicity and warmth, of familiarity with an imagined companion. You are wearing wire-rimmed glasses, just like the one I had.

/a flower 

In another, we are lying on my bed—it is morning and you look at me as I look at you. Your white shirt is pristine in the sunlight, my hair a storm of frizzy hair. The quiet is broken when I say that you are my Sunday Morning. Just like the Maroon 5 song.

The smile you give me rivals light itself. 

(I hope I remember to bring a camera the next time we meet.) 

I’m a bit lonely here, visit me?

[teaforchutney]

[teaforchutney]

And I remember your eyes were so bright.

[teaforchutney]

#3

i’ve spent six years in elementary, four in highschool, two for college. i’ve learned how to balance, solve, extrapolate equations, theorems, axioms, binary trees. but i haven’t learned how to let go of things i cannot keep.

[teaforchutney]

What is Lost

Sometimes I’m afraid of being in the present.  There are days when I wake up, caught between the sheets and the confusion and I think, ‘this moment decides who you were, are, will be. Here and now tips the balance of what you keep and what you lose.'  I made a promise to myself to keep on going, but sometimes I fall short of optimism, of courage. There are days when I am afraid because I don’t know which is which.

[teaforchutney]

Don't you think it's time for change?

One day I woke up and heard a knock on the door. It was an old friend, Change.

“Finally,” he said, “I’ve been standing here for ages.”

I return his smile in apology and let him in.

This is from a journal post that may be found HERE.