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.



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


My changing hands

Honey, I don’t know what’s happening to me. My hands are hurting… my fingers, my wrists. I’m afraid I may not be able to hold you. I’m getting older, day by day. In a matter of time I may be lying in bed, unable to move. I’m looking at my aching hands, and even gloves can’t stop this change from happening.

You may think I know what my body is doing, but I’m clueless– just like you… and I’m afraid, just like you.

Honey, I’m sorry if I ever become weak and bedridden. Darling, I’m sorry when I turn into dust. But please know that my feeling for you is stronger than life itself. From a universe unknown I will carry you when you’re tired. In a universe unknown I’ll be waiting, and we’ll be free.