*throwback* cold coffee

I pushed the door open with my foot, startling you. Your eyes were filled with sleep; mine were full of mischief. I came to your room with the intention to wake you up with the smell of coffee, but seeing you like this; naked, hard, embarrassed; it did things to me.

You were a guest in my house — a friend. The polite thing would have been to apologise and leave. But I couldn’t. I was hungry. Starving. And not for food. You looked at your erection, then at me. I licked my lips and tried to find a safe place for that cup of coffee in my hand.

You sat up and reached for the sheets to cover yourself. I shook my head. “Don’t, ” I croaked. You rose an eyebrow, probably intensely aware of the situation too. I kept my eyes on you, avoiding to see myself ungracefully join you on the mattress through the mirror on the wall.

“Hi, ” you said as if you were seeing me for the first time. Your hand was already in my hair, pulling my head; my lips, to yours.

Outside, rain was joining the wind that had been up all night. Inside, we were joining too.

Everything fit. Profoundly. Almost overwhelmingly. The natural flow of things didn’t take us back. It didn’t leave room for doubts or vanities. Every touch meant something. Every time I felt your tongue on my heated skin, it felt as if I was becoming a part of you. Your hands explored my body as if they had never done anything else. The weight of you on my tongue was exactly right, and your taste made me swallow you as often as I could. I was drowning in our lust.

When you finally penetrated me, it only took a moment before the world exploded for me. Shivering, sweating, swearing, I encouraged you to keep moving. But you didn’t. You lay on top of me; your hands were caressing my hair, your eyes were searching my face for something that I couldn’t pretend wasn’t there. A smile appeared on your lips. Proud of yourself and how you had undone me, you kissed me. You were pulsating inside of me, but not moving. Heavenly torture. I begged for more, gyrated my hips underneath you, but you were stubborn. And too close to be consumed by our lust too.

Two micro moves later, you stopped breathing. Your sweat was dripping down on me from the tip of your nose; your eyes were closed. A strangled noise left your lips just before you started to breathe again.

I had seen you. I had felt you. And it left me breathless; and not only because your full weight was on my body now. The beauty and surprise of us in this situation was overwhelming. You kissed my temple and rolled off me with a loud groan and a chuckle. Your arm covered your eyes, and your hand was running up and down your stomach. The most handsome man who I had ever been with.

I put my head on your chest, your heartbeat sang a song for me, while I retraced the pattern of the tattoos on your skin. Your eyes were filled with sleep again. I covered us with the crumbled sheet, making sure that the wet spot we left was covering me and not you.

In a while, I would worry about the meaning of it all, but right then I decided to go with the flow and let it happen.

Only the coffee had grown cold.

Throwback – it’s the little things

  • Crying during a movie
  • A song that turns back time and carries you to one specific moment
  • A book you can’t set down
  • Tea that has the right temperature
  • The sun shining through trees
  • A formation of clouds
  • A rainbow
  • Thunder and lightning
  • A right pressure on the spot where your back hurts most
  • A child saying your name
  • A child giving you a hug
  • Birthday wishes from people you thought had forgotten about you
  • An evening with friends
  • Hugs (but hugs aren’t a little thing)
  • A song on the radio that you like
  • Your child singing along to your favourite song
  • An entire paragraph that was written without a typo
  • Writing the first words after having felt uninspired for a long time
  • Not setting the alarm
  • Empty plates
  • A decent parking spot
  • One last chewing gum when you thought there weren’t any left
  • A smile from a stranger
  • Giving a busker some money and the gratitude in their eyes when you offer to buy them something warm to drink
  • Old pictures
  • New songs
  • The smell of my pillow
  • Clothes that are still warm from the tumble dryer
  • Smooth skin
  • Even numbers (grocery shopping, gas pump)
  • The scent of my favourite perfume
  • When the hurt goes away
  • Being aware of life’s beauty
  • Not forgetting life’s challenges
  • Sleep
  • Lists
  • Realising that many little things make some big things
  • A kiss
  • A good dream
  • Serenity
  • Thinking without succumbing to melancholy
  • An old voice message that still makes you smile
  • A memory
  • Knowing that everything will be alright (even if it doesn’t look that way)
  • Being present (are you there?)
  • The clock that says 23:09 or 08:02
  • Sunrise
  • Not feeling regrets
  • Remembering a friend who has passed away
  • Thinking of people who changed our lives (I am thinking about you daily lately – are you there?)
  • Notifications
  • Stars
  • I am what I am
  • The wind in my hair
  • The soundtrack of my life
  • The perfect shade of your favourite colour (raspberry or aubergine)
  • A picture that touches you
  • A song that pulls at all the right strings
  • Being understood without the need to explain everything in detail
  • A life in pictures that were never taken
  • Everything and more

The letter you will never read

Revisited post from November 2015

You asked what I see when I look at you. Well, I am not sure if you can handle it, but this is my truth.
I see a man who doesn’t love himself and who doesn’t acknowledge his achievements. At the same time, you like to brag about them, and you are proud of the things you create with your mind and your fingers. You love what you do. It’s your passion, and you need it like the breathing air. Yet you hate it because you are a hostage of it too. You are so soft-spoken and yet so vulgar too. You are yin, and you are yang. I love that mix. And I love our calls — hours of your voice in my head. And although you like to steer them to the lighter side, you can’t always hide the torment of your soul.
How can I make you understand how much you helped me get in touch with myself with your sheer presence in my life? How? And I still don’t understand what it is you see in me. You told me that I am different and that I understand. You said that I am beautiful, not only my body but my mind too. You said I could be perfect for the right man. But, why did you choose me? Out of all the women who want a piece of you, you picked me; and I didn’t even flirt with you, I was just grateful for your visibility. I can’t see anything of value in myself. Ha, maybe that’s a lie. I have many qualities too; I just don’t recognise them every day. Still… What do you see in me? What do I have to offer that you so desperately seek?
I will never understand any of this.

We are sharing fears and fantasies, and so many of them are similar. And I wonder why? I read your words before I ever met you. Did you make me into this woman with your art? You say you write from the heart and everything you write and say is true. It’s the same for me; bleeding emotions. But I don’t want to save you. I can’t; I am not strong enough. I can’t be the one to protect you from yourself. I can offer you other things, though. I will never give you my heart, it belongs to someone else, but I can give you a part of my soul. Isn’t that even more intimate? It’s the part that your words shaped. The part I am offering freely every time we talk. Just don’t forget that I am not a toy and not a whore; you can’t buy me with cheap words and front row tickets.

I don’t expect anything apart from honesty and respect. I said that before, right? We even talked about it. See; lately, I don’t always feel that respect anymore. You are too sure of yourself, or so it seems to me. And that’s what lets me keep my distances right now.

By now, we both know that I am more to you than you let on. We both know it. It’s in the way we talk and the words you chose. What we know too is that you punish yourself — living a fantasy that can never come true. It’s easier to reject people; me, when I set the limits myself.

One of your first concerns was that I would fall in love with you. You said that you could not fall in love with me and that it could never happen. You even asked if it hurt me when you said the words, but once again I said that I already have a man in my life who I love dearly. You said that every woman you ever loved left you. And you sounded so sad and resigned. I hope my words that day were a bit like a hug.

There is so much about you to love. More than you see. I am untouchable for you, though. Unreachable. And maybe that is exactly what you need, what you want? It lets you pretend that you will not be hurt like emotionally although we both know that you are already hurting. The truth is, you are scared. Scared that someone could love you for who you really are — scared that someone might see you and see all the craziness in your head and still love you. At the same time, you need that love. Crave it. I can hear the longing when you speak. It will never happen if you punish yourself with pushing everyone who tries to love you out.
A lost soul, that’s who you are. Afraid to be found. Afraid to be understood. But I do. I understand. And maybe that scares you even more.

I don’t need you in my life, but I let you in willingly. There’s a place in my heart for you. Just for you. You deserve love. And you are not alone. You are valuable. Your writing changes people, brings them inner peace and joy. And pretend all you want, talk about serenity, spirituality, and calm for hours on end, but regardless of what you say, you haven’t found them. Or maybe you once felt them inside, but they wandered off?

Could I ever dare to ask this question? Do you still have dreams? Are you too broken and lost to find hope?
You said you feel old. You aren’t old. Just tired. And it doesn’t help that you neglect yourself, your body; your emotional and physical health. You are better than that, and you deserve better than that.

I know that your perfect person is waiting for you. Somewhere. Maybe it is me. Who knows? I believe that this person is the piece that is missing for you to be complete.

I believe in this; we are fragments blown away, that can only find peace when we are put back together. Complete. I am not sure if I could complete you. No, I probably couldn’t.
But the fact remains that I see you — your pain and your misery too. I can’t end it or make it go away, but I can be there for you. I want to be there for you.

Am I still a stranger, that’s what I wonder. And if I am, why do you rely on me to cry and to talk freely? Is it because I am not there; not real? If you keep everyone at a distance, you don’t have to be you. You can hide behind your words and your talent. You can pretend to be someone you are not. But hiding your true self makes you unhappy and miserable.

We are the same, you and me. You just had more time to become the jaded person you are while I was lucky enough to have someone stop my downward spiral at the right time. You stopped it. Made me open my eyes and see. Made me happy, at least for a while.
Life is hard at times. Feeling rootless is too. You ask me to tell you that I love you. In my own way, I do. And yet, that one question is the opposite of what you said when we met. Why should I love you if you will not love me back? Why do you need to hear those words from me so often? Is it already too late? Perhaps you are already genuinely in love with me? We will both laugh about this, right? We are not the romantic kind of people, we’ve established that a long time ago when I asked you never to forget me.

I know that I had you after you read my first email. I had you after the first time you heard my voice. You were mine when opened up about your fantasies and I didn’t flinch or ran away. I had you after the second time you asked if I was there and I said yes. I will always say yes.

And that is what I see in you, and that is why you love me. And I love you too.

The one you will never have

Yesteryear’s love

There are hints of me in every corner of your mind

I hide in every word you speak and whisper

Three-hundred sixty-five thousand afterthoughts and lost moments

The impalpable dent on your soul is where I found my invisible home

And I melt on your tongue when your dream vanishes at dusk

Steady! Forget to feel me in your breathing air

I will forever linger on your skin; a veil of the past leaving you blind

And you’ll wish that you’d remember who left the void inside.

I’m still loving you

Overflowing

Underflowing

I don’t know where I am going.

Would you catch me if I ran?

Would you take me back again?

Overwhelming

Underwhelming

Say something; tell me

That I am in your heart

And that I inspire your art.

Exploding

Imploding

I can still feel you under my skin.

Life is not the same without your light

Let me fall asleep in your arms; hold me tight.

###

Letter to a stranger – happy new year

Dear stranger,

First of all, happy new year. I didn’t send an email or message for Christmas this year. I preferred not to get in touch. We both know how bad it is for our sanity when we are a part of the other.

Today I made a list of all the reasons why I never loved you. I wished everything I came up with were true, but you know well that it isn’t. I miss you so much. I miss the way we were and the way we never were. Maybe it is all just a huge pile of turds.

I loved your eyes

I loved your hands

I loved your voice

I loved your words

I loved your smile

I loved your c*ck (a lot)

I loved your humour

I loved the way you touched me

I loved your vulnerability

I loved your creativity

I loved your thoughts

I loved that you saw me in the dark

I loved me when you loved me.

I loved everything about you. Every moment we shared; every tear we cried; every heart-felt laughter. I even loved the sounds you made – all of them.

If I were a drama queen, I would tell you that I don’t want to live without you. I knew love; I tasted it in your arms and on your skin. I would beg you to come back to me.

But here is the truth: I know that you are happier without me. And I know that you love her. You deserve to be happy. I am glad that you are. And I don’t want you to be back. I couldn’t handle it. It would probably kill me.

If I were able to let you go, I would find my own happiness too.

You are probably wondering why I am still attached to you after all these months. I can only guess; I guess it is because you were the first person to love everything about me. You didn’t try to change me or my moods. The nagging voice inside my brain says it is because you didn’t care at all. Maybe it is true.

I still like the memories we made. I still like you even if you hurt me like no one before.

I miss your hugs. I miss the way you took care of me. I miss who I was with you. Wish you were here. I am a little obsessed with our past right now. I am looking back at the time when I was less alone and lonely. Must be the time of the year, I don’t know. Everyone is looking forward to the change of the new year. Everyone is making plans for the future. But the year cannot change us if we are not ready to change. I don’t make sense at all. I feel silly admitting all these things. Every healthy woman would drop you and move on. But you were my breath, and some days I think back to that time when you told me how to breathe… You left a void nobody can ever fill, no matter how hard they try. Could it be that I am addicted to the way I felt with you? Could it be that I miss how I felt, not who made me feel that way? Am I giving you too much credit? Will I ever be able to take back my life?

I hope you think of me with a fond smile once in a while. I wish I left a small trace inside of you. Something good.

Forever not yours,

Sweetie

Forgotten Hopes

Once, a long time ago, I wrote a poor version of this and put it up on my Wattpad account with this as a cover. I still like it somehow; that’s me, by the way.

She was fifteen when she first heard the song that changed her life and became path and direction of her journey. Music had been a distraction and a companion for most of her isolated childhood and youth. Being subject to emotional abuse, she had found somewhere safe to hide in her mind when music was playing. When silence reigned in her bedroom, thoughts threatened to destroy her fragile mind. Once in a while, her older sister took her to the city. They browsed stores for clothes and, her favourite part, for music. Their shopping spree always ended with an obligatory trip to the newsstand. Her sister bought the latest teen magazine, and she invested the last of her money in music magazines that came with free CDs.

On the bus home, both girls looked out of the window, trying to find ways to ignore what was awaiting them at home. The older one retreated to her own bedroom as soon as they walked through the door; the younger one was greeted with new chores that were added to her list and verbal abuse when she was not able to do the things she was commanded to do. She was not innocent though, she replied to every insult thrown at her with another insult. Inside, she broke apart, but she refused to show it to the outside. They would love to see her cry, and she was not willing to grant them this victory. Once done with everything, she too found her way to her sanctuary, where the first thing she did was putting on some music. But the music she listened to made her angry. Angrier than she already was. Her friends had suggested those bands, and for once, she had wanted to fit in, and something was appealing too, but she was beginning to see that those friends were morons who weren’t able to see past shallow lyrics and worshipped ugly minds and ideas. This was not her. She was too open-minded and free-spirited for this hate and ugliness. She had enough of those at home already, and she wanted more; needed more. Somehow she always knew that she deserved more.

She unpacked what she had bought, new CDs to put in the stand next to her stereo and listen to one after the other; a new black top with a large white and silvery bird, and the magazines from the newsstand. She wanted to give the new music on the free sampler attached to the magazine a listen first. Awaiting rejection, she knocked on her sister’s door to ask for the laptop they were sharing. With relief she saw that the older girl was not using it and with a warning to bring it back within an hour, she could take it. Once everything was plugged in and mounted, she was in for a surprise.

4 minutes and 42 seconds were about to change her life. The CD started on its own accord, and the first sounds she heard was an acoustic song by a band that was unknown to her. She didn’t know much about music, but she knew when she was touched by something good. She looked at the screen in front of her and was intrigued by the two men she saw with their guitars. One was sitting on a chair, strumming and singing; head slightly bowed. The other lay on the bed cradling his guitar like a lover; eyes closed. A myriad of emotions ran through her mind and body, too many emotions to place them and all she was capable of doing was sigh and smile. Wow! The song ended. The screen faded to black and she, she released another long breath. She was mesmerised by what she had heard and seen. Before the next song came on, she had to play this one again. The repeat button was the only option there was. This time, the smile was there from the beginning. As soon as the song had ended a second time, she knew she needed more; more of this beautiful and sad music. She was greedy, but this music, these lyrics, and the men somehow too, they had touched something deep inside her. Something was born and awoken in those few minutes of having listened to the song. In a frantic nearly obsessed way she browsed the internet to find out who this band was. They were brothers and part of a band. The clip of them in the hotel room was made to advertise their newest release. This British band had been around for a while, and she made a point to purchase as much of their back catalogue the next time she would go to her preferred record store. It was 1998; she was fifteen and deep inside, she knew that this band had just changed her entire life and thoughts.

She was twenty-six when an unexpected bout of depression hit her. It was the first time she felt helpless, hopeless, obsolete. Friends had long gone; only a couple had survived and morphed into adult friendships. Life had changed; she had moved on with a family of her own. She had a house, a husband, and two kids. Her mind had changed too; of course, it had, she was not a child anymore but an educated and intelligent woman. The music she listened to had changed, as well as the meaning it had in her life now. The band that had changed her life in her youth was still there and had stayed the same; more or less, releasing new music regularly.

It was 2009, and everything looked good on the outside; to some her life was perfect. But inside; inside everything was different; she had lost hope. She had forgotten how to have hope for a better future. She had no dreams, no goals, no future. She was existing, but not living. No one had ever promised anything to her. No one had ever punished her for dreaming. And yet, she was bruised by the daily struggles. Hurt by her own high expectations and standards; and yet she couldn’t change. She was powerless. Hope was lost.

She sat in front of the computer. It was silent in her room. Just she and her tormenting thoughts that became louder and more vicious with every passing sleepless night. She clicked YouTube links by the dozen to distract herself from the noise in her brain, but the music didn’t bring her peace anymore. The songs were filled with melancholy, and they all made her want to cry and hide from the world even more. Until seemingly out of nowhere, the song came on that had changed her life a decade ago appeared in a random playlist. The exact same version. With both men in a hotel room and the camera focusing on the guitarist who lay flat on his back playing the intro to the song. Forgotten Hopes.

The song that had changed so much such a long time ago was doing it again. She didn’t smile once when it played. She just watched. Frozen. Her mind was empty, devoid of thoughts. This hadn’t happened in a very long time. And when the screen faded to black to begin playing a new song, she paused the playlist and buried her face in her hands. She finally cried. She cried the tears she had kept in for years, and when she was all cried out, she felt freer than she had ever felt. Snot was running down her nose, and dark dots that used to be warm tears adorned her shirt, but it was okay. Her head hurt from the sudden release of those locked up emotions. But that too was okay. And once again, this song, this band that was ever-present in her life, had changed her train of thoughts. It was okay. It was okay, and everything would be okay. Music was healing her mind.

She was thirty-two in 2015, and after supporting one of the musicians of the band that had been her longtime companion in a crowd-funding campaign, she received a personalised song. It was the most unique gift she could ever receive. Forgotten Hopes, and it was sung just for her. It took her a couple of tries and a lot of headshaking and worrying, but in the end, she dared to send an email to the man whose lyrics had guided her through her life and whose words were inspiring her own creative mind. She thanked him and told him briefly how much she owed to him, his lyrics and his passion. He had touched her in all the right places, and now she wanted to touch him too. Give back a little. And by doing so, her life changed again. And maybe, his did too. For her, it was Important that he knew and understood that his presence on this earth had saved her, that it mattered. In her mind, every artist deserved to know that their light gave hope.

Forgotten Hopes. A vivid reminder to her to never lose hope.

Anathema – Forgotten Hopes

(partly autobiographical)