Blue is the colour of the sky and the sea, and the roadsign where you left me. Like an uncontrollable spinning whirl, I saw the blue rage like the brightest flame and die down to a dark velvet hue like the sea when it rests at night. It is the tile on a Gaudi wall, the paint on a Monet sky. The blue smacks me and stains my skin like the bruises on my knees, it becomes the coarse denim jacket that I wore on a night that was too cold for thin blue fabric. It becomes the small details in life: my ball point pen mark on the inner side of my left thigh, the stray piece of string sticking out from the collar of my shirt, the blue reflected on my glasses from the computer screen. It creeps under my skin and becomes my veins, just skin-deep and untouchable. Returning, returning to the faint blue sky above my head.
There was that bad after taste
on my tongue
where the pills sat before the water came
to rinse and wash down tid-bit, coloured rounds.
That bad after taste I blame
on the whiff
where cigarettes burn on my wrist and scorched
to mark down one monumental event.
This after taste cannot be torched
where cracks emerged I covered with my soles
and slipped right through into the rabbit hole.
That moment when you can’t breathe, because you are so utterly disappointed by someone you have entrusted your future with.
That moment when your breathe seems to quicken because of the lack of oxygen, among the lack of many other things that you have been going through all this time.
That moment when you try to take deep breathes because you try so hard to tell yourself that it is OK, and that everything will be alright again eventually.
That moment when you chest heaves upwards to draw in an enormous gulp of air, you can almost feel your lungs expanded to its biggest limits and stretching the possible capacity within your cavity like how you’ve been stretching yourself.
That moment when you exhale slowly, little gusts of air that come out choppy because you can’t think of anything else you would want to feel, because it does really feel like you’ve been chopped into tiny little pieces of particles.
That moment when the very last breathe of air leaves your body and your decide to resign in defeat because there really isn’t anything else you can do.
Orange brims from the black sillhouette where the sun sinks beneath the shadows of the building. Bright yellow fades to orange and blurs into the pinkish dark outlines of the horizon, champagne gold blends like water colour rippling through the clear river below.
The white streaks that slice the blue sky fabric fades after a few minutes, like the minute details of every close observation I had, of every moment that eventually blurs into nothing.
Florence bids the sun goodbye, knowing that they will see each other again tomorrow, never the same time, but constant like every sunrise and sunset.
The sun’s last kiss today leaves the rocks on the Floretine bridge warm, lichens that creep across the surface will taste the breeze and cool as they await another new day.
I have really tried so hard to explain to you how it felt to have 1000 needles pricking at your brain, picking out tiny negative emotions and pinning them up on the wall. Like big, shiny needles with sharp points, my brain unfolds before them into grey mush and matter, and I feel bare.
There must be a sinkhole inside of me, trying to suck out all my emotions and happy thoughts, leaving me dry and barren. Like a plug unplugging and the water going down the drain in a spiralling swirl of blackness. You could hear the pipes gurgling and protesting: No! Wait! You shouldn’t feel like this!
The draining continues.
Sometimes I feel like I need to purge all my feelings out of me, like impurities in a puddle or murky water. So much to purge. And now I am empty but still unclean, because you can’t rinse a container without water, and all the water has gone and evaporated like teardrops.
I will stop counting the cigarettes you smoke
or those that I smoke for you.
There is nothing more than smoke in the air that
chokes me as I breathe in heat and moist.
You have been a shadow in my mind for as
long as the corridor of my hope extends,
but now there is no light to shine and
there will be no more shadows in my mind.
I felt your ribs under my fingertips, no pressure on your chest so you don’t wake. I felt the rising and falling of your rib cage with every breathe you took in, and I wanted to feel more. I moved my hand to the centre of your chest, where your heart resided just a little to the left. There wasn’t a very strong beat, but it was steady and constant like your long inhales and exhales. My fingertips ran along the ridges of your jaw and the rim of your lashes, but I didn’t want to wake you with my cold tips. I wondered if you felt it in your dreams, and I wondered if you imagined them touching you in your slept along your eyelids and among the stars in your vivid lids.
I traced along your nose and protruding eye lids, knowing that you will never know about it. I was greedy about keeping this sensation to myself, and me alone. I want to be so sure that I can keep this touch upon my fingertips, the gliding of my skin against yours to myself. A selfish want that I can no longer keep within, and the deep seated insecurity that once you feel those tips across your lids, they will flutter to life and no longer be the same.