In Insomnia, march fifteen on January 31, 2010 at 11:42 am
I remember us sitting in that bar filled with foreigners, just like now, raining late September over cities, I had rain boots and I sipped wine, you had unfiltered beer and I chainsmoked and you hated it so bad, not knowing you yourself will be doing it again just about a month later.
The theater in May or April, I’m so lost about that, so helpless and confusing dates and times of the year. I waited so long for the perfect movie script and it turns out I don’t even know if that’s real life any more. Pain, with no pleasure, with no second thoughts and an infinity of chances. Like February made me shiver.
In march fifteen on January 18, 2010 at 6:44 pm
I was all puzzled
And I burst into tears
When i saw that
for the first time since we broke up
thinking I never actually got to know you
as an individual
as some part of myself
the side of you that was with me all the time
and not yourself as you actually were
because, truth is, I didn’t recognize you.
I might as well
well, right novels about it. My faults and this one revelation. Each of us, those people they would never consider telling stories about.
In boris vian, march fifteen on January 11, 2010 at 10:33 pm
O sută de ecouri, pe care nu le stăpânesc, pe care le aud spărgându-mi-se în creştet ca bătăile apei. Mă încearcă un început de aducere aminte şi mă feresc să-i răspund, să îi deschid uşile şi să îi dezleg braţele. Doi ani mai târziu, trei ani mai târziu, 40 de zile mai târziu, în acelaşi pat căptuşit de urmele altor fantome, cu pielea răscolită de atâtea amprente. Să mă decojesc de fiecare până oasele rămân lucioase şi subţiri, zahăr brăzdat de forfecuţe.
In march fifteen on December 21, 2009 at 9:14 pm
I miss how we worked together, how we spent evenings in bed doing nothing, how my dresses used to fit your t-shirts. I miss your hands in my hair and I miss wearing your clothes at work and eating from the same dinner plate. I miss summer with your friends and dancing our feet off on Friday nights. And I can’t seem to shake this habit of wanting to call you, of wanting to know I can go somewhere I’m safe from everything. I miss you picking me up from work. I miss the stupid things and gestures you did to try and make me laugh, the concerts we’ve been together, the people who told us we’re beautiful.
But then I remember how I hated becoming so dependent on your help, how I hated the movies you liked and viceversa, how my style was never your kind of style, how my shoes never matched yours. How that would always bother you. How you unexpectedly wanted to ditch me the day before I had surgery just because I wanted more out of us. How you were always afraid I’ll eat up your space by moving in even for a week and how you would put me down in needles and pins every single time I’d ask you to take me home for Christmas. How you were never jealous and how that gave me the distasteful freedom to cheat on you and even write pages about it, without you noticing. How you stopped telling me I looked pretty and how you judged me for spending my money on expensive footwear. How you were reading my lines and all you could say was “It’s nice, but I don’t get it“. How I would talk all by myself for minutes without getting any answers. How you would criticise me for smoking after you quit and how you would beg me for cigarettes after you started smoking again. How you always seemed suffocated and with one foot off the boat. How you made stupid intolerable mistakes like buying me books you knew I’ve already read and not even signing them. How you never remembered what was my favourite music, my favourite writer, band, not even my shoe size. And worst of all I hated how you never, ever, wanted to buy me flowers. How I had to make lists of all that was in my mind cause you could never read me enough well to figure me out on your own. How you said I was crazy because I talked too much and wanted so much more. How you never understood. How you always rolled your eyes whenever I had champagne for breakfast. How you became lazy and how you complained over everything about me, from haircut to hand bags. I don’t miss our late mornings together, I don’t miss the terror of our fights and not even you saying you love me. Cause that’s not true. Well at least not in the last ten months. I don’t miss me for the last year and a half. Colorblind, confused and morbid.
So to be honest, the only thing I miss right now is the day. The year, the frenzy. March fifteen, drunk in a bus. I totally take my fault for that. And it was only half worth it. We’re both these great, amazing people. I just think we were never meant for each other.
In march fifteen on December 19, 2009 at 1:23 pm
Am uitat că în Decembrie se numără fantomele şi toate acordurile lor. În vocea de la capătul celălalt al telefonului, în nuanţele vechi pe care le resimţi şi dîn cele pe care abia acum le descoperi, ca şi când te-ai pregăti pentru o altă prima întâlnire. Trei ani sunt aproape o viaţă. Amprentele, modulaţiile vocii, ţi se târăsc sub piele insinuant, chiar dacă a trecut o veşnicie între atunci şi astăzi. Îţi spui că asta nu se întâmplă şi, mai ales, nu acum, nu ţie. Încerci să uiţi de genunchii care ţi se înmoaie, de paloarea care îţi pune stăpânire pe figură, de carnea care brusc, atârnă a şi când ar sta să îţi părăsească oasele. Apoi te trezeşti, fugitiv, în faţa oglinzii, înainte de a ieşi din casă, întrebându-te nu de ce te-ai schimbat, ci, cam cât. Oamenii cărora le-am aparţinut rămân mai departe ai noştri. Trebuie să fie ultima oară.