her accent was thick, her voice husky, and her eyes smudged with kohl. she had that distinctly exotic flair that parisian women are renowned for. those things and that she refused to wear anything but heels.

when i met her at the door, she was covered in sweat, wore a tank top and a long sleeve cotton men’s shirt with capri rolled up jeans.

and heels.

somehow she’d walked all the way from the harvard T station to my door with all her luggage and yet still held herself with unmistakable poise and seeming ease.

it wasn’t until later that i realized her constant rolling of cigarettes was due to the effort of maintaining such charming insouciance in the midst of pursuing her difficult goal. which was the seduction of my roommate who had already turned down her advances while they were classmates in paris. the same one whose current girlfriend was living at our house.

i had simply thought, damn. if this is what parisian women can pull off while covered in dirt and sweat, what chance do the rest of us have?

 

cuz baby, it ain’t nothing but a heartache..

   

magic. this filled me with joy from the top of my head to the tip of my toes.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-6739710473912337648&q=bsb+i+wan

i had to wipe a tear.

from laughing so hard.

watch these lovelorn letters pass us by. everyday they drudge along, whispering sweet endearments to our wondering ears. i remember when i thought that this would devastate what we had.

 

 

 there was the sea with its salt laden breeze. the crystals beneath my feet soaking up the evening glow. and you stood there, with midnight in your eyes and a raven upon your lips. one raven for sorrow. two for joy. and i could not say that i did not still love you. you and i. our darkling charms entwined. but what i did know surprised me. that this was twilight. and i was waiting for a child of dawn.

 

softly spoken, softly woken. the soreness in my throat, the hazy glaze that shields my eyes from the imperfections of your skin held too close to my retina.

she came to the floor undressed in her elegant self-effacement. the
nakedness peeked out through her too perfect shell. the coverings that fit
and accentuated just so, ensuring that the viewer was drawn away from
the blood still seeping from beneath her nails.

the heartbroken always go out with a bang.



i came for unpolite gestures, blunt words expressing your awkward
interest in the softness of my frame. i knew your reputation as well as
the promptness of your replies, the looks that you had thrown my way
for quite some time now. you had girls to warm your bed and your
fellows to be your friends. we played our flirtatious games, though they never
came to the fruition that we had both intended.



sex and charm. intelligence and physical attractiveness. the games we play until our wounds have healed.

oh.
    oh.

there were lovers that she wanted to keep, letters that she had burned,
words that she would rather have left unsaid, but these things come and
go – with the passing days, the passing moments into fleeting memories.

sometimes you say i love you just to hear if it rings true.

page by page, line by line, i read words that i have written. wishes
that have come true, memories captured from my biased perspective, the
history i have written for myself.

i am ready for one last wild boy before my sojourn to the south. i know
who he is and where to find him tonight. there are some things you know
and some things you don’t. but i’ve only two weeks to know it all for
sure.

“learn to swim” maynard

when i was tucked under your chin while you were reading a journal article as i was wrapped around you barely breathing and your fingers idly playing with my hair – it was then that i knew

that our illicit affair – with your dwindling but not yet nonexistent relationship – with my boy off to save the dying -

that this was more than it was meant to be. we never kissed. we never had sex. it was merely holding and being held. it was merely the physical presence of a good friend in your bed on a sunday morning. it was more than it was meant to be. that our lovers did not know. that we ourselves refused to know.

that it was indeed illicit. no longer innocent. that when i had called my darling angel boy with the bluest eyes and the darkest curls that bounced when i ran my fingers through them – i had called to say goodbye. that maybe he needed a world saver as well. a girl who would not just go to visit him – but would go to be with him. who would not seek solace in the arms of another.

i knew you were off across the pond for the summer. that you would be walking and drinking and laughing with old friends. and quite possibly the lady that you had loved.

but when you kissed me for the first time today. when you told me that you had told her it was over weeks ago without telling me. after my darling had phoned me to say that he thought we should be just friends for a bit, after i had cried into your new blue shirt and had whispered that i knew this was for the best but why did it hurt so?

when you pulled me close and tilted my red eyes to meet your hazel ones, when you bent to touch your lips to mine

god.

 i knew the world had ended then. ended and ended and ended.

and all it took was a kiss.

a djarum hangs loosely between my fingers, the ash slowly forming and
dripping off the ends like a forgotton sieve. you are my watcher from
the past, a remnant of a man i used to love.



i know that you are there – waiting
for me inside the bar. that you have set up the chess board in the
corner, away from the hustle and bustle of the young ones. that you have placed the
wine glasses next to each other, red to mirror white just as you
reflect dreams of me. that the music is rife with beats and soul,
lyrics and blunt obscenties barking out of the speakers like a life
lived too much on the run.



i know that you are seated
there watching for me. that your eyes have changed to blue, the
tattered navy sweater that i love bringing out the hue i adore the
most. that your long fingers are idly playing the pawns against the
bishops. your head tilted to the side as you graze the drinkers in their merriment. how your fingers itch to play.
 

the clove sputters and chokes
as tobacco meets filter. i flick it into the street and watch the old
man with his cane amble by. the draft swings up and my collar flips
in response.




i know you are waiting for me to saunter in. for the arrogant sway of my hip to catch your eye. for brown to meet blue.



i cannot escape you. man that i used to love.

we stand in the snow, glistening in its all reflecting glow, your
hand holding mine and my head tilted ever so slightly upon your
shoulder. you are preoccupied with the children playing in the snow,
the puppies joyful bounding leaps scattering the little humans like
pigeons.

and he does not notice

that i have remembered a past lover. in this stranger who walks past
us. so blissfully unaware of my racing heart, my forced demeanor of
calm.

and then there are nights, spent outside in a cloud of
smoke, hours where you held me captive with your smile, when we
devoured each others hearts and souls in conversation too poignant to
be entirely forgotten.

and he cannot notice. my shining new man. who holds me
more carefully than i have ever been held. who even now, slips his arms
around me, places light kisses in my hair, and whispers how lovely the
sky is, perhaps i should write about it sometime..

and the moment passes. and the stranger with careless hair disappears.

i am learning that love is not always sunshine and
roses, that the man who holds my hand need not always know about the
boy who took my breath away so arrogantly. a racing heart at the notion
of confronting a memory need not be indicative of a lingering hold.
that those days are over. and that these have just begun.