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nitta

Conversations with My Best Friend at Three am

(This was supposed to be uploaded here in the distant past but here we are)

Nitta

I said we can’t be friends if you didn’t vote

Simmonna

But I gave my heart to ‘him’ long ago

Nitta

It is his to keep now?

Last I checked, you gave a part to another; Dan, in payment of something

How then, can you offer that to another, when a part of it is missing?

Simmonna

We broke up. I fell for his friend

Nitta

He is lucky; the friend

And disloyal; if he too fell

Simmonna

He is a photographer, and a writer

And his is a fucked up soul

So he sees what Dan doesn’t

He is darker, taller, and loves life

And a certain Facebook post says he smells like Jesus

Nitta

Aha

I have fallen

Kindly mention that I have never seen the light

And that his soul is pure; like spring

Tell me his eyes are deep

Tell me they are windows to those parts humans don’t see

Tell me they see your soul; that they are searching

Simmonna

A thick dark strong drink

That’s what he is

He has this thick mane

And his skin is one vulnerable to passion scars

Nitta

He lives in Venus; and vacates on Jupiter

He is a roaming soul; that perched on the edges of your broken soul

Tell me he is that

Tell me you live for the scorch; of this dark drink burning your throat

Tell me you live for that sensation that your nerves perceive as fire; disguised as ice

Simmonna

He will make you drown and blossom into a thousand different flowers

Flowers thick like the rain forest

Those that drop nectar in the off season

Flowers that water for him

Even in the heat of summer

Nitta

Tell me it’s dark too; the nectar

Tell me he doesn’t need the sun

As he stares at that which he adores

That which his soul was made for

Simmonna

He makes it so easy for me to kiss him

To taste him

To let him crawl inside and find the untamed parts of my heart that still believe

To feel the energy; and the passion

And the vibes; allowing me to get lost in my own soul

Nitta

He is tired of seeking; for he did that all his life

He beat at his effort to find

Tired of the empty words that they crafted

Now he desires silence

And how loud and calm it gets when you sit beside him; comfortable in that same silence

Simmonna

He is raw and wild

He awakens the soul

He knows passion

And how to meet my lips in the dark

My knight in shining amour

P.S. I voted 

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Conversations at Three am

Aside
Missives

Dear Marcus

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‘………If you happen to be emotionally invested, even a little, you can’t disembark partially……’

I am staring at the dim lamp just outside the Zumpini. It is set on a low wall that characterizes this place; setting the ambiance just right for any activity romantics like me enjoy. For us, just being here is romantic. Hugging that coffee mug the way I do is perpetual. The dim light and the soft music does it. And simply staring at your face across the table disarms me. It is 1900hrs and I am waiting for a table to clear. I ordered a latte and I hope the couple at my favorite table will have cleared by the time my poison is ready.

So I keep to my phone and scroll through old shards of our conversations. How I first texted in response to a penning of yours; claiming your dark element appealed to the light I lost. I smile at the efforts I made to live up to what I imagined conversing with one that that writes should be; and surprised myself when I realized how right it felt. I note the timing of our conversation and grin at the absence of normalcy in our interaction. I am still trying to figure at what exact moment our conversation turned to something else; deeper. I am amazed by the urgency in the way we silently pleaded with each other to keep in touch; and how loud the moments we spent away from each other seem. Maybe it is that claim that all relationships could begin as ‘CASUAL ONLINE CONVERSATIONS FROM MUTUAL WRITER GROUPS’.

It’s our bleeding pens and bare souls that have us clinging unto the few moments that we have had. It is our attraction to heights we never imagined that draws us together and the feeling of my tilting my neck to meet your bespectacled form. It is the uncertainty that hangs around us that keeps us curious. It is the mystery of what could be that keeps us trying. Maybe we shouldn’t; but what is the worst that could happen if we chose to stay in each other’s circles?

So it’s me listening to voices after I am seated and drowning in the isolation of this noisy joint. Voices of distant Christian hymns; infused with noises from the bar next door and the sound of pool sticks hitting the balls, and the conversations at this hipster joint. It’s me wishing you were here; and recalling my vehement warnings that you keep your phone away when we first came here. It’s me recalling your almost innocent stare at my face and my failing efforts to hide my blush and girly grin. And later smiling at your adoration of my gait and step. And that threat that I don’t get to walk about with my pink lips freely.

I have no idea what it is I am doing. There is a part of me that loves that; not knowing. I have been peeling back layers of you; discovering things I never knew you were about. I have been feeding my curiosity and uncovering hidden parts of you I never knew existed. I have acted in ways that seem suggestive; yet guarded. Maybe I will let myself fall in your deep sea of creative genius. Maybe I should squash the embers of what is kindling here; but what’s the fun in that? Maybe I should risk something else and kill my inhibitions this once. Time can tell.

CareyJK

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Not More Than a Week

on milkshakes

Is it just me, or is the idea of sitting at a quiet coffee shop with the tip of a pen on my simple notebook intriguing? Seated at Dorlac’s Cakes at a white chair, I’m penning my usual musings, passing time until my host gets home. Been here almost an hour. I finished my strawberry milkshake some minutes ago. The cup is still here and I have an excuse to be here; like regulars do. I’m engaging in my habitual passive observation of people. It’s a nice spot that’s right by the road and there is so much to look at when you are not looking at anything at all. The thing about passive observation is that you observe  nothing and everything. You notice everyone and immediately forget what they look like and what they wore.

A few faces glance my way; probably admiring me and thinking I may be an actual serious writer. It helps that I am busy penning this and my eyes look intense as I stare into the nothingness in front of them. I smile at that thought; and keep looking up each time someone says hello and answering with a nod and a genuine smile. I imagine the cliche claim that people find writers intimidating quite appealing right about now.

***

So this meticulous young lady in blue jeans and a floral blouse sits at the table opposite mine after wiping her seat at least thrice. She works here; served me. Now she seats with a coffee cup in this heat. I’m in no position to see if it’s really coffee in there or something else altogether. She gets her beige hp mini laptop, an exquisite notebook, and a pen that, unlike mine, has its lid on. I instantly feel at home and smile; imagining what it is that she is penning. Her friend joins her, taking the seat opposite hers. I imagine the obligation she feels to politely engage her, even when all she desires right now is a bleeding pen.

This would be a nice joint to hang. I already have a mental picture of spending my evenings here; sipping at double café lattes. But then, I look at my phone and remember so well a text that came yesternight and grin, shaking my head:

I’m not missing you for more than a week.

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Second

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When you have been here before,  you dread every step of the way.  You are too aware of the edges and corners that exist and every one of them raises the hair behind your neck. You become so obsessed with the process that you miss all the steps you never noticed previously.  You make new mistakes and fall into deeper holes.  You become so frustrated that you come out of it all insane and mad at everyone and everything it represents.

So you build up your walls.  These ones higher and thicker than the former.  You surround yourself with thorns and detest every approach they make.  Your poison flows to the claws you grew and you canines are now sharper. So even genuine souls suffer under your careful gaze.  You are too aware of ill intentions that you give no chance to genuinity.  Everything they say seems so empty to your ears.  It’s not your fault; you are just protecting your heart. You are just guarding it the only way you know how.

So every word the former says jabs at you and you swear you could kill them if it wasn’t immoral. They check up on you and say you will find someone better; more deserving. You smirk. They were everything you wanted and you were not.  You gave them your all.  You opened yourself up to them in ways you haven’t to your own soul.  You gave them every shred of your heart and they crushed it and returned it to you.  So you are busy putting the pieces back together and realizing that some of them are lost forever.  For those that fit well together, you know the cracks will never fade.  Passion scars don’t . You know all you ever will do is grow a layer over what is there. You cannot afford to have anyone break that which is already broken.

You know what hurts the most?? It’s the fact that they could love you the way you loved them.  They were capable of doing that.  They just chose not to.  So it’s you seeing them happy with new people and showering them with love and doting them with care and affection.  It’s you acutely aware of the pain your heart has known and knowing its physical as much as it is emotional. The torture is real.

You know full well that they took advantage of you. You could see it.  You ignored it and made excuses for their behavior. You knew you were honest in your love.  You know that you loved with abandon and left yourself at their mercies. You waited as they cleaned house and got ready for you.  Only that; after that,  it’s not you they chose.  They moved on to another.  You wanted them to choose you.  If not out of love, then out of respect and courtesy.  But no,  it was all for nothing . They could never choose you even if it was only you that was left.  So you dry your tears and contemplate. You conclude that you should just accept your reality.  You will always be second.

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Lit

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#manhattanhenge#Youngerseasonthree

Its Friday evening, around 6:45 pm, and you are walking home from work. Its deadly silent, and the few people along the way seem to be each lost in their own thoughts. You are enjoying the quiet of a typical Friday evening and the view of your surroundings just after sunset. Your hands are in the pockets of your black bomber jacket as you engage in a never ending monologue in your mind. You realize that someone standing at the side of the road ahead of you is smiling at you. She looks vaguely familiar and you squint, trying to get a better look at them. You notice how her black leather boots emphasize the length of her legs. There is a carefree aura about her and she is wearing a long, baggy, blue hooded jacket, and has a black sling bag.Her hair is tied in a high bun. You wonder what she is wearing underneath. As you get closer, you recognize her; she is the one you lent your jacket last week. It was raining and being the gentleman you are, you had given her your jacket. After all, you were ‘just about to get home’. You told her where you lived and said she could return the jacket to house number one.

You smile back, recognizing your jacket, shake hands and walking home  with her seems like the most natural to do. So you get home, and into the house. She is standing by the door, still in her boots for you insisted she doesn’t remove them.  You are clearing the books from your coffee table and getting rid of a shirt you left on your couch. You turn to offer her a seat and there she is, looking perpetual, innocent and sinfully sexy as she hugs herself. You stutter, asking her if she’d want a drink.

“Water”, she says.

You head to the kitchen to get her water. You get back, and you are glued to a spot, staring at her. She has got rid of your jacket and let her hair down.  Your lower lip quivers, and you know that this will be one hell of a night.

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Pale

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You will remember me

I will be gone, long before you turn your head and change your mind

It will be too late, at least for the moment

You are gonna live to remember that day

That you watched me break down

As you feigned concern when tears ran down my cheeks

As you watched me crawl, dragging my tired legs among the shambles of a life I once had

A haven I had created for myself, for us

You will regret, later probably

You will know full well that, I was leaving on account of your indiscretions

That you had the chance to man up or otherwise

And that you did not choose the former

 

You will remember looking into the windows of my soul and seeing the hurt

The sadness, the anger, and the disappointment

You will see a piece of me fade, die away

You will see the gravity of my emotions and realize you had me, almost

You will see me fading into nothingness and know you couldn’t save me

You will envision my form and realize that

As I lay in your bed beneath the sheets, I offered more than my body

That I lay my heart down for you, to do as you please

That you did what charmed yours

 

There’ll be others, and I will pale in comparison

For you found me in the shadows

But you too were there, or you couldn’t have found me

But I hope that my plain will be enough to have you bogging my friends to intercede for you

I hope the shards I leave behind will have you seeking my broken form

I hope you will miss the flaws in my being and the cracks I possess

I hope each tear I shed will sting at your heart, painfully

I hope that, as you watch her staring at the looking glass for hours, you will remember I almost never owned one

I hope that as she fights hard to fit in, you will remember I never did

For I neither did fear nor care

I hope that, as you toss in bed each night, you will feel that pillow I brought you

And that my scent won’t never fade from it

I hope you will hug it and fight back your tears like the man you believe you are

I hope you come knocking, on wrong doors

Since I will move, and remove

I hope you come bearing the pieces of me that I left behind

 

You won’t find me under the shower, drowning in my tears

I will be over that

I will be okay

But I know you won’t, for you know I was on the right;, not that it matters now

You were a work in progress; still are

I was too; still am

But you gave up, once you started mending the pieces of you that were visible

 

I will be waiting

And one of two things will happen

I will find closure, and forget you; almost undo you.

Or you will come looking, before it’s too late

I hope the latter happens

Till then, only one question will run in mine mind

Was a new notch in your belt I ever was? Only one that cleaned, and cooked and ironed, and…..

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ONLY BECAUSE

I am seated at a corner table by a window at the White Rhino fast food area, sipping at my occasional dose of caffe’ latte. It is raining softly outside and my helmet is sitting on the chair adjacent to mine. My laptop is on and I am busy trying to beat the deadline on my assignment while utilizing the WI-FI at this place. I am a regular here. Don’t get me wrong, what I really mean, is that I come here every fortnight; to recharge and just be. So I keep sipping, as darkness crouches the outside, increasing my typing speed until a ‘hello’ distracts me. I look up expecting to match the voice to a familiar face but it turns out to be a stranger just being pleasant.

The distraction lasts, as I remember exactly how you and I met. It had started with a hello at a coffee shop I was trying and we had grown close with each consecutive encounter. Phrases like “bill’s on you’ and ‘I owe you one’ became common and this became our meeting point, our common ground and haven. We even had a table that was almost always never occupied. It faced a busy street on one side and a boring old wall on another. We cherished our time together and almost fell for each other; at least I almost did. I loved how petite I felt as I stood beside your giant masculine form; and how mature your bearded face looked compared to my cheeky one. We would tell each other’s schedule even when we never did exchange contacts; we thought that was romantic. Thinking back, I think we should have anyway; thanks to my futile efforts to locate yours when I missed you.  We would walk each other home, sing to each other and talk for hours on end about nothing and everything. They all thought we were a thing, and we laughed at their faces. We looked really good together and I almost forgot you weren’t mine; and that we were just two people who saw each other.

And then you moved, with no word or goodbye note; not even to our steward at that coffee shop. I walked to your house only to find new occupants; with no forwarding address left behind. I waited for you to show up. I asked the waiters of your whereabouts each time i walked in; asked them every morning on my way to work and in the evening as I took my drug and probably bore them with my cliché queries. I did my daily checks like a doctor does on a patient and waited for you like one who had made a solemn promise to always be there; though you never did. We were all I wanted even without a label. That was kinda the thrill of it. We were the ideal. I finally gave up though, well after seeking your number and realizing how little I actually knew about you. I relented after a few months, and even contemplated giving up our coffee shop. I stayed though; as if holding on to the only thing left of that which we once shared; as if afraid to lose the pieces of you I so cherished. I wore that place like a badge of honor; as if proud I managed to walk in there when i knew you wouldn’t.

Then one day, eighteen months later, out of the blues, you called. Where you got my number I didn’t ask. Your name was already fading from mine memory; but your deep voice simply couldn’t. We had one of those weird conversations on a cold July evening, and I felt the ache in my soul intensify as if you literary slit my heart.  I hated myself, and the way this affected me, and reduced me to a frail thing. Something tragic happened, you said. And that you couldn’t explain it over the phone. And that was why you were sitting at our place for the fourth time that week, waiting for me to show up. That you too had bogged the waitresses with your bogus questions and that they finally found my number.

But then, I had already moved; away from things that never would be. I was tired of waiting’; for something so uncertain for so long. I had opted for a fresh start; away from the constant reminder that you weren’t no more. I had chosen to leave my ghosts behind and sought solace in my work.  I was hurting, and no one could understand why if I explained it; for I too didn’t know why it hurt so much. It felt like I was moving on, but from something that never was. We said our regrets on that weird call and promised to catch up some day. We never have; at least not yet. We never may, and that’s okay. We aren’t kids no more. We can deal.

I am sure that, someday, you will be seated at a place like this one Sunday taking coffee, probably Mocha, and remember me. It would be raining, hopefully, and you would be hugging your mug. You will recall the songs I sang you and admit that I cared. Maybe cared too much. You will admit that I disarmed you and that I always was in your loop. You will hate that my voice just couldn’t leave your mind like yours couldn’t mine. You will smile sadly and agree that it is only romantic because it never happened.

 

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