Little House of Savages

I haven’t even cried for you. This comes as a surprise to me too. Maybe you giddied me up to such heights unashamedly fast and unhesitated that I must have expected a crippling crash. You didn’t even allow for enough time to plan a weekend getaway or next Sundays breakfast and paper, so I guess there was no ‘life crumbling’ moment to indulge in or a habit to miss. Even so, it seems years ago that I sat on the kitchen floor hugging my knees rocking gently, when crying felt more like vomiting, when the pain felt surreal.
Maybe I’ve successfully learnt an ‘adult’s ‘ ways of dealing with these things or maybe thinking of myself as two separate people, the griever and consoler, is just mad. But who else will eat packets of corn flakes by the spoon with cold milk with me when I’m feeling blue? After all, I’ve studied myself well enough to know what tickles my fancy. I know which ballet class will calm a racing mind, that a glass or two of Tanqueray will be my finest reward after a difficult day at work, that reading a book will make me feel less alone, that standing in my underwear at the kitchen sink eating a perfectly ripe mango will make me tingle with pleasure. I know that painting with some rock n roll in my ear and a glass of wine in my hands will make me feel invincible, braving the wildest angriest waves, lion hearted in a floating, fearless way. My fingers have learnt their way down the sheets at night to still buzzing thoughts and fight insomnia. I know which friends to call to make me laugh which ones make me feel like they understand and which friends will accompany me to feeling oblivion and slamming the empty bottle back onto the table. So, you see, I’m a master of my own self and so I make a vow never to abandon myself and that everything will be o.k.
And just as firmly as I believe this, I come crashing down again, with one word and one foul swoop.

Coffee Toffee

I love my morning walks to work. A piece of calm before the storm.
Dayvan Cowboy by Boards of Canada moves me along whimsically this morning, lullabying through my broken ipod earpiece. A stomach and mind of yesterdays wine urges me on, begging for a roasted brown beaned release. Here's my stop. The aromatic smell demands it so. Sitting at the bar, waiting for my soy latte to be poured by able hands...hands, hands...i'm stuck on the hands. Gaze moves up, my coffee boy. Yumm!! Morning treat supreme. Please take your time with the coffee...oh o.k., have a nice day!
I know I'll be back tomorrow.

velvety kisses

Mine's not a High House

I am running out barefoot to collect freshly laid eggs in the morning. A little cracked pepper and salt over a poached two on crusty, gutsy bread for you.
On a hot summer night, they'll crown the best salad nicoise you'll ever try. The sun will be twinkling through the bowing trees in the backyard. We'll chase the dog around and play like children under the sprinklers until we collapse onto the soft grass and make love, shedding our wet clothes.
In winter eve's, we'll have a drink in the bath, paint beards out of the bubbles and suds and rub each others feet as we talk about great exotic plans and ventures.
We'll stain cookbooks with splashes of gourmandism, whilst preparing caring feasts for friends. Creamy soups with thickly buttered bread, pungent curries heaped with fresh coriander and my poire tarte tatin.
When you walk in the door (the best sound) I'll tiptoe to reach your height and level myself with your loved face with those eyes and those lips, throw my arms around you and thank the universe for allowing me.
Should I rise from a nightmare, the smell of your chest will bring any of my lost ships safely back to harbor.
Quiet weekend mornings reading the paper, interrupted only by the occasional 'hey, listen to this...'. Midnight munchies of toast sitting in our underwear on cold kitchen stools. I'll butter yours if you butter mine.
We won't have much money, but will spend it thoughtlessly on good wine and punnets of fresh berries.
Nights apart, making our own seperate memories will be worth the distance just for missing you. Just wake me when you arrive home so I can say goodnight.
You'll know how to make me laugh and what to say when I don't want to, but also when to simply stop me, trace my lips with your fingers and hold me strongly and without hesitation.
I may wear the same dress a few days in a row, walk into the house with grubby knees and leaves in my dishevelled hair after spending the afternoon lazing around the garden, but I will feel more beautiful than ever.
I propose we both have our own seperate rooms. I will most likely paint in mine and collect things older than us. I won't ask or judge what you do with yours.
If you've had a bad day I'll promise not to question you, unless you are wanting to talk about it and not to touch you until you are ready, fighting the urge of standing next to your chair and holding your head in my arms and kissing your hair.
Should your friends come by unanounced and feeling blue, I will let you do the listening and talking and pour you both a drink. I know you'll switch the kettle on for mine.

And when I finally find you, you'll have already found ME.

A Sky so Blue it Bursts

I like it here, under your sea.
Floating on my back, seaweed is tickling my spine.
I am so weightless and my skin welcomes the cool.
Above me the sky is loud.
Sunlight, shining bright, rude and intruding, tries to break the surface, tries to smack me, like the little bitch deserves. It crackles and somewhere I hear friends and enemies laughing or crying. I can't say for sure.
Dancing all around me are fallen stars, tired of the sky's demands, seeking refuge in this here wonderland. Some of them carress my skin on their way, hide under my drifting body, exhaling in relief.
The silence is my mother, embracing me with all her love.
Dear, dark, still sea, let me lay here a while longer, until a fishing hook snears me and pulls me back up to air.
I'll breathe, I swear.