Just Maybe Forse Ciao

Who is that stranger near me? This person here who likes me enough. This person I simply trust. The one I cannot touch This person who knows me very well and yet I wouldn't recognize his skin long forgotten but he smells familiar  and he is beautiful anyway. He is turning me into someone else he shows me things, he makes me curious he leads me where I don't dare to go where I need guidance and he doesn't even realize how precious that is for me and what that means to have me eat fried chicken and light up my intellect while listening to meaningless meaningful music at the same time. He doesn't know what I call intimacy. And overall that is  not a good thing, then I want more and there it all stops as the walls we both erected protect him and not me. And I have to start acting. Not a big deal, but I need to change the focus. When you act a part that you don't feel yours less spontaneous, less happy, less jumpy, less yo...

Two different people cannot paint the same painting,  the same city is never the same all is deviance as there is no normality. Two different people cannot love in the same way so if you love me and go crazy it doesn't mean that if I don't go crazy I don't love you. Two people cannot have sex in the same exact way not between each other, not like each other. Two people cannot love in the same way so if you think I love you more and you love me less you shouldn't choose what is best on my behalf  "less" might be "enough". For me. You might not know what my more means and you might judge my love wrongly and I do not know what less means or more means. For you. As two people cannot love in the same way. But the pain and hurt of rejection the fear you will always be in those clothes that you don't want if one loves more and one loves less or so they thinks will always, and I see how alwa...

I also do believe in fairies I believe in lakes that seem still and whisper instead and castles and princesses and ogres and another world where everything happens in colors and you can be surprised because when I believe in magic I can be surprised. I believe in the magic of a car trip with classical piano music playing with the countryside that you eat and run through faster and faster the green that shades away, the sky that opens up and the mystery of the music that shivers on his cheekbones and then you switch the radio channel and you start singing together. And you look at him and you turn on the volume until the whole car the countryside you drive through your throat and his throat cannot be distinguished anymore in the noise. And the noise becomes a smile on your face you cannot shake away. I believe in the mystery of speaking about love in a language that is not your own when you try to make your hands talk to him, focusing ...

In the city of toys, with the rooftops red, pink and green, the colorful bricks that have seen the war, the regime, the imperial splendor, the fake and true wealth of those who have ruled the streets, the hills, the music, the art, well there I do not have a toy heart. In the city of toys, the grey and gold bridge, the pastel green of the dome, the PollyPocket knot of streets, history breathing through churches, clocks, figurines, masquerades, puppets and all there is to play with - in the city of gold I glitter too. As I have switched off all my fluorescent colors inside, to make hugs last less, to make kisses never come, and love and making love never real for myself. Colors would want longer hugs and kisses and love making which seem real instead, every once in a while. If I had a toy heart, then I would be able to forget and embrace the colors instead, a toy among other toys, playing games with bubbles and PollyPocket streets and palaces, and princesses' dreams...

Amsterdam is not haunted anymore,  she thought while walking up and down the Canal. It is familiar and yet so very distant the smiley face she had on all the time less doubtful sometimes singing surely hopeful clearly unable to see. In her general imprecision of emotions the feelings she feels  are precise enough this time in an Amsterdam that knew her once upon a time and never saw her growing up. Saudade and gratitude and loneliness.  If anything else these years brought her that,  precision,  not order, no but precision. The space once occupied by sensuality is now the space of awareness she is waiting for resignation for acceptance of what is missing to finally settle and finally be ok. And there is no other way to explain  why today she is able to share the night and the day with him and yet she constantly dreads forgetting why. Why does she do half of the things she does. While she surprises herself missing m...

She needs stars, many stars, new stars. And she needs bubbles, one too many, colorful bubbles. She let them go too soon without chasing them down last year. To laugh and live profoundly, she needs. To remember and to forget powerfully, she needs. As she wishes to forget imitations, repetitions, mere reminiscences, mere echoes of what is truly unforgettable love,  of what truly happens once or maybe twice? She remembers the essential, the infinitely little, and yet infinitely rare, that it takes to cross the borders of her heart beyond which everything is just a couple of inches away from love. When love is beauty and not just ruins. He crossed that line, but truly, whose fault was that, but hers? Her solipsistic need to make it - to make him - count. His wit, his beauty, his intelligence, was just a gift from her,  you fool! And she should be scared of it. Full of bubbles and stars that border.  Full of weak beautiful colorful bubbles and ...

On the gold sand  on the amber peninsula on the grey island Violet this summer is neither violet nor red. She is yellow and dark.  She wears a straw hat and she has sun-kissed skin she laughs she drinks she flirts she kisses she touches she absorbs the energy around and she produces more and more of that energy to release to others.  She does not have a care in the world that moment right there,  before, during and after sunset on the gold sand  on the amber peninsula on the grey island she is all she can be complete and free without fear and disappointment of those who judge her too much or too less or not enough never enough. She can forget Violet,  about heartaches and work ambitions and frustrations she can plan the perfect crime and pretend she can get away with anything for that moment right there,  for that night right there after that permissive, sexy, imagin...