Stark vision

You have a way of surprising me. Your show-stopping eyes… I swear that it’s still; it’s a painting. You’re a piece of some marvelous artwork. When I least expect it, you walk into the room and just glow
heaven’s pure white light.
The life in your face
The sun’s tender kisses on your skin. I didn’t know you could almost be my tone.
Who are you, who are we?
You have an uncanny ability
To leave me breathless.
That stark white collar against the back of your darkened neck. An unexpected bolt of lightning electrifies my heart. You look back for a split second, and stagger at my golden hue. I’m glad I could do it to you. Glad you could see it too. I always thought I could outshine you, but you out-did me boy. I’m stupefied. With those shimmering stubbles framed around your nape,
(Can I touch it?)
That look of utter demand you carry. Do you want me to say something?
You win
Standing before me. Made of sleek, smoking ice
Making me burn
Melting
Dancing, at your feet.

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It’s about everything

It’s not about touching
It’s not about listening
It’s not about talking
It’s not about you and I, buried underneath the ground.
It’s about sharing every fiber of my being with you,
Immersing in this life together
Being stared at
Being a part of things
Going places, acknowledging each other,
Holding hands and facing the world
Sleeping on green grass
Fingers interlocked
Fingernail marks on your skin as a reminder of this sweet, painful existence
Kissing in elevators
Sitting on the lonely park bench and staring blankly into the horizon
Inhaling the intoxicating scent near the ears
Tasting the tangy alcoholic remnants on tongues
Dressing up for your eyes
Deep diving into the waters without any fear of what’s to come
Running down the beach at night in a state of splendor
Dancing nose to nose, like we’ve just found each other
Waking up in the morning and looking at each other
It’s sharing every bit of every single thing, wholly
With you.

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Diving into big light brown eyes

What happened last night?

Well, I woke up at 3 am, ate pomegranate, and cried my eyes out. Couldn’t really go back to sleep after that. The only thing that relaxed me was the thought of how large and gorgeous your light brown eyes looked near the bright windows, and how I wanted to wear a crisp white bathing suit and smooth dive into them from a sky high diving board.

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Anxious rat eyes

I like you because you’re so random, and you can pick up quickly where I leave off when I zone in and out erratically. We just don’t seem to care that much. We’re quite nonsense and there’s no need to explain to each other any sort of reason or validity as to why we exist because we’re both perfectly aware that we’re totally fked either way, and that we are, in fact, just blind rats
running around this circus wheel inside a rat cage where we fight for food but also play
and when your red eyes beam my way I stop this erratic thing that I’m doing and I listen to you
and we communicate like normal people do. Such profound things we discuss; why might we be alive? You verbalize things that ring my heart and it leads me to realize that I’m not alone; that you’re just as miserable as I,
and it’s a gorgeous thing playing in this dark side of the universe; it’s like we’re just sparks of fire burning and fizzling out before our own eyes
you, with your eerie rat eyes
looking at me, acknowledging my life while we do things unpredictably and blabber normal gibberish that we should.
My friend, you have no idea how much I owe you
for helping me stand when I couldn’t get out of bed
for existing, as sad as it is for you, and living as anxiously as you do.
You can hug me anytime, and I’ll hold you tight
Then we can stay still, and heal in the ocean of each other’s stares for a while.

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The bloke at the airport

The bloke at the airport. London town, all year around. With heavy London accent and a surprisingly friendly assistance. Took ama across the airport; an old one pushing one older. Tattoos on his arms indicate years of wrong decisions. But this is London town, his home, his land, and his particular accent says it all. A friendly old bloke at the airport. The pain in his old hands, but the shining youth underneath his sparkly eyes. Hands worked over the years, yet eyes remained bright. The happiness in them overlook the hardships. Rationality is forgotten and he becomes a London lad yet again. I saw his hands and his smiling face, and I gave the five dollars not knowing pounds. He beamed brighter; his eyes victorious over the wrinkles, as his aging hands took the very money to add it into a bank of air. Another hard day at work, another cigarette. London town is calling outside, and he–a part of it, thrives in it quite passively, unaware.

Travel writings, 2009/06/01

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