What’s One More Time?

And when I say these things, I show my truest self for you. For you to be able to see. Almost like an open letter, this is for you, Friend. Parts of you will be hiding in these lines somewhere, hiding from the blinding lights that illuminate my soul. I will try to protect you, but you must know just how much it hurts me to not see you.

For what’s a girl if she’s all alone? There’s only a handful of guarding angels around me and I managed to lose sight of you. Giving you up to the world, for the greater good, is something I can learn to live with, but it’s almost like a struggle each day. You hold all four corners of the world safe from the ludicrous and evil haunting. At one point you knew me as the girl who lived so close, in your heart, in your street. Now you’re stationed so far from me it’s sometimes hard to understand. What happens when I need you so close I can’t stop the tears from arriving? Who will know what hurts for me when I hardly speak a word? There’s so much want in my heart, longing to be just a little nearer. Distance is not the culprit, I cannot make him sole bearer of blame, but I feel him robbing friends from me and leaving me with sad lonely nights like these.

When I picture a day, long from today, ahead in time, somewhere on the horizon, I see you there with me. Perfect in all ways, dancing and laughing madly about the silly memories that tie an invisible rope between you and me. Tangled we’d lie in the tall grass, sharing the paths that have lead us to each other. Reaching out, I might be even able to touch the moment before it dissolves under the unknown sky. Just thinking of that day, the burden lessens and I breathe a little easier, waiting with all my might to exhale.

I wish I could say that fear never paralyses me, but with most certainty I can demonstrate it is the one single thing that does. Fear of never being good enough. Fear of never doing enough. Fear of losing, leaving, faking, lying, dying. Fear of meeting you and then having to spend decades or lifetimes without you. Fear of having to find friends to replace you. Because you are holding a part of me that I have entrusted in your care. I only asked – keep that part of you sincere, innocent, raw, and ready to dream. I will come back for me. I will be back for you. When the fear of not having a boy to love, not knowing whose name to call, when loneliness like a black shadow overcomes, you will be the one I run to. Then you will have to turn in the self you’ve been keeping safe for me. Will you be able to do that for me?

I miss you: all of you. You’re my army of strength, my tower of virtue, my only proof that some of my choices have led me to find magic. Day after day I am reminded that love is never enough, but with you in my life I even dare to believe that love can take a backseat if the ropes that connect us are securely tied at all our ends.

Just promise me you’ll never stray too far from me. Tell me that the rain you see will fall on my head one day. Tell me it’s not too long before I see you. Tell me again, what’s one more time?

Before Christmas

It’s supposed to start snowing right about now. When I wake up, the white blanket of soft water should cover all the earthy and vulgar that tread under my feet on my morning stroll to work. Snow’s late this year, forgot to descend, was probably busy filling the world’s reservoirs and flood plains somewhere far away. It’s at least cold here. Is it cold where you are? I can imagine a brownish, greyish, blackish Christmas, but not a sunny, yellow, changeless Christmas. It’s most definitely just a case of what you grew up with and therefore denote as normal. Snow covered whiteness is normal for me at Christmas. Bitter cold is normal for me at Christmas. Frozen sidewalks and bus stops are normal for me at Christmas. Angels, Jesus, glitter, lights, smells of freshly cut pine trees, coats oozing the distinct odour of naphthalene balls: these things are normal for me at Christmas. A sense of peace and happiness are what feel normal to me at Christmas.

Can you remember the last time you noticed a perfect ending to an almost perfect day? Of course perfection isn’t always the answer, but near perfect is attainable and through that, near happy must linger somewhere low enough to be reached. It must. Just before Christmas people turn a little crazy. They give themselves a doze of intolerance and hate towards each other, but we should try and look beyond that, or forgive their trespassing, because after all, this whole malarkey around at the moment is meant solely to celebrate the abundant love: the bond that is between us humans, the real answer to every question of doubt ever raised over our existence. It’s as simple as that: love.

Just before Christmas I wish I could take you with me all the way to New York City. Even if the past means nothing anymore, somehow travelling in an almost unnoticed sky brings us all closer to who we are. Maybe we could use this to let our best selves shine. Buying into the spirit of the holidays a little, maybe we could let the mirror reflect the selfless, loving, endearing parts of ourselves. However hard it is, maybe it's worth a try.

I hope that when I wake up it will be white outside. I hope the huge snowflakes can make people forget the dirty deeds of their souls. By the time the snow arrives, I’d like a clean slate, something liberating, and something meaningful in these dull days. By the time the snow arrives, I want it to be Christmas.

My Very Own Press On Tattoo

In this snowless winter, I walk the streets of this magnificent city and feel my legs go numb from the cold, my eyes water from the wind, my hands sweat from the warmth in my pocket, my mind wandering freely as if it was a summer breeze. The huge boat that hurries down the river, splitting the surface, creating waves, turning over the white side of the water, makes the mossy river look warm. The wind throws me off balance as I stumble over the bridge and I feel a bizarre desire to jump into the seemingly lukewarm water as if it was a scorching summer day.

In my apartment, sheltered from the wind and the cold, I sit unprotected from the fragile thoughts of others. Words that pierce through me, having just left the lips of another tangled soul. Someone far away. Then everything I want to be magnifies and there’s a sudden rush of ambitions, of self-confidence, of fearlessness. Before I move my hands back towards my chest to cover my heart, I embrace the invisible frailty and beauty, hoping that one day they will accompany me as visible friends on my long and wearisome journey.

With each day passing I try to make peace with the fact that I may never be loved the way I wish. If I cannot learn to wear all of me on the sleeve of my warm winter coat, I grow cold with fear that there may never be anyone to see me. I shyly and timidly try to uncover parts of my soul with each word I choose to sit on a page. Protected and wrapped I hand them over to you. If you’re careful enough, you will uncover the thoughts that have not been tempered with, that have not been disgraced, that sit guarding their brothers and sisters who have not left my fingers yet. They’re held together with the long and thin rope of this kite that sails in the air, circling around, waiting for you to catch a glimpse. If I was braver, you would know. But home is far and my words have only as much strength as I do and only as much confidence as I allow for them to have. The rest, the rest of the fight, I have to undertake alone. My hands bear wounds from deep cuts they have endured whilst protecting my heart. The pain becomes physical and my heart stays vulnerable.

The broken images that lay before me whispered unforgettable memories. She fell asleep to the most beautiful Rosie Thomas songs. He sat with his eyes closed, strumming his guitar to the sound of her voice. And I have my very own press on tattoo. All the while, I failed to see that my plants are miserably unhappy, sitting under my window, feeding off each others’ lonely looks and resting their roots in the tired soil I make them live in. Forget about the needs of my soul, forget about trying to take care of the muddled emptiness that’s around, forget about tying myself to a kite to leave this life, forget the immense beauty in loneliness, forget the yearning for another because there are three little flowers who are calling for me. And I call them: these friends of mine. These friends of mine.

What’s a boy to do?

Let’s try jumping into the unknown at the same time. Let’s try to thrust ourselves down from the top of a building, you holding my hand. If we have each other the fall might not be so horrific, but only if you’ll hold me. Have me.

Here’s the whole of me, the hidden parts are meant to make you fall in love with me. What you see not will once make me who I am to you. Just hold me and make me see. If the fog clears up, I will find myself holding you, staring into your mischievous eyes, placing all my hopes in the palm of your hands. Take very good care of them.

The pages will read: he makes me silent. He makes my world and my all, still. What I need is his touch and everything else falls into place or mysteriously falls apart. I cannot tell where I end. I cannot tell if this love is what makes sense to me. What’s a boy to do when the girl knows not what she has to know? He makes me silent. He makes me still.

I could love you, I could love you well. I shudder when you walk past me. Did you see me? How much more can my weak and lonely heart take? Why does it always find the boy who never intended to care? It gets itself into so much trouble and pain and silly heart never is the wiser for the mayhem it creates. But you? You could be the one to save it from drowning. Look at me, just smile at me. Sit beside me. Hug me. Be like you always are and I’ll dream on while you play with my hair. Let only these four walls know that I secretly have given my heart to you.

If in the silence and stillness you can see who I am, then come and love me.

What's a boy to do with a girl like me?