It’s the flutter.
The feeling in your tummy that makes you want to throw up and scream and run around like a crazy person all at the same time. The feeling that fills you with a warm bubbliness, a fizziness, a strange elation that soothes and maybe scares you . . .
I admit that I love love, that I love the idea of love. I don’t consider myself a romantic (anymore — not after meeting people who truly are romantics and who, through seeing the world in what might be heavily-tinted rose-colored glasses, seem to speak a completely…
See English below ~
Si seulement le monde pourrait être clément
Et les mots que je dis pourraient être cohérent
Pour te revoir j’accepterais une trêve
Mais tu ne sortiras jamais de mes rêves.
Ici, Le Soleil brille fortement chaud
Mes pensées emprisonnées dans les cachots
Le sol se fissure sous les coups de mes pieds
Et toi, tu ne me pardonneras jamais.
Si penser donc être précise René Descartes
Je suis, alors, à travers pensées qui battre
Je vis peut-être dans l’espérance de l’amour
Mais toi, tu n’existeras toujours.
If only the world could be forgiving And the words…
A somewhat contained disease that escalated into a pandemic in less than two weeks is nothing to scoff at. While economies stall and travel bans become the norm, the necessity to for “flattening the curve” and “social distancing” invades our day-to-day. At the heart of this rapidly escalating situation, we’re all trying to process information and end it as soon as possible. So life can go back to normal.
Your days may have changed to working from home, E-learning, virtual conferences and the never-ending slew of closing businesses and cancelled events. I know I’m yet to truly consider video calls…
Lights at night were blinding,
Sensual gazes binding,
We travelled down oblivion,
Reaching heights beyond delirium.
Amidst leaves swaying with music,
Fatal tunes of our undoing,
With the glimmer of lost moonlight,
And the sliver of lost delight,
We carved stories in the wood bark,
Limbs entangled in the dark,
If the wind would share our whispers,
Maybe we could save the disperse-
ing desire on tingling fingers,
If the sparks on skin had lingered,
Maybe truth had made us captive,
Maybe rules had made us passive.
Maybe if my knees had bruised,
Or if acts weren’t misconstrued,
If things went as they should, that night
If the moon hadn’t glimmered, that night
If the river hadn’t shimmered, that night
If my cold heart hadn’t simmered, that night
If your faith hadn’t flickered…
That night could have birthed magic.
Or what was otherwise,
They say you don’t know what it’s worth
Until it’s lost,
That must be why it hurts the most,
When you knew,
But still lost.
You cage yourself in phantom hope,
knowing that if you pray,
maybe someday you’ll find it,
the little gold cross I once had…
The worst thing about losing
amidst the anger and frustration
woven in the tears and regret,
is that life just keeps moving
as if it cares nothing
for the piece of you that is no longer
settled where it should be.
Still. Life is about loving and losing…
At her lowest, Lola always found herself wandering through the cornfields that bent and swayed in synchrony with light breeze, as though leading her to the house that stood at the center. Swallowing back the taste of iron from clenching her teeth too hard, she quietly pushed the door open.
Her grandma’s house smelled like it always did, a scent sweet like cinnamon mingled with spice of freshly picked chilli peppers permeating the air even through their skin. Her grandma loved those like it was the reason for her existence, the very fuel that gave her life. …