Cowboy painting...

"He does not love you" my mom told me once ".He would be here if he did"

I am lying in bed -his bed- and Im fighting myself not to look at the clock, but it´s 4:00 a.m. because he is not here and everytime he leaves after spending the night with me it´s 4:00 a.m.

Where does he go so early? Does he leave at the same time even when I am not here?

I turn my face and search for the scent of water and salt his hair left on the pillow, then I cry for that scent reminds me of the sea and of tears.

It´s 5:00 a.m. and still I can´t sleep. It is as if I had to be waiting for him, hoping for him to come back with a smile on his face and tell me he went running or cooking or riding... anything, but he does not.

It´s 6:00 a.m. and the sun is rising in the sky. The empty side of the bed is no longer warm and my tears are dry by now. 

A beam of light slips through the blue window, he is not there and the only thing my tears allow me to see is his cowboy painting: cold and mocking -just like him- on his pale wall.

 Short Story Slam :)

Two words

This is the second time I get this feeling: words travelling through my veins. They are accumulating on my fingertips trying to get out of my body, trying to capture my ideas on the paper, ideas that I am no capable to express.

So, today,  I only have two words to say: I´m sorry...

Untold.

Once again the rose in my hand shuddered, the petals bleed hot chocolate and the leaves cracked under my feet.

It was like having something you can´t control under control: imposible to avoid but avoiding it anyway. Is that even possible? I stopped asking myself that question a long time ago. 

I write about chocolate, roses and leaves because I can´t allow myself to talk straight. I can´t change metaphores into concrete concepts, I don´t think I am strong enough, at least not today.

How horrible it is to own words, feelings and stories you can´t told! Why can´t they be told? They would be disastrous and harming for the ones we love... 

Taking part in Thursday Poet´s Rally

Madness

Short Story Slam

Year: 2011

-You see, Dany -he said -, I´ve been stolen too many times in my life. I´ve lost  my wallet, my suitcase, my food and even my shoes and nothing had ever pissed me off so much.

They were standing near the surprised crowd who was taking photographs of the hot air balloons. 

-They are so colorful -he said again -. Seriously, I´ve never been so pissed off before! How could they do it Dany?

Dany, his dog, stared at him with eyes open wide and moved its tale in an anxious way.

-Dany! These people have stolen my idea! I created those submarines!I am Jacques Montgolfier! I wonder how will they take them to the ocean, Dany... 

The feeling...

The feeling that something`s wrong.

Not knowing if it is your fault,

if it could have been different or

if it means something else...

Like holding a very fragile rose in your hand:

Trembling because of the power we have over it:

easy to cut off, very hard to keep alive.

Signals and signs, 

are we supposed to follow our hearts?

Promising poets poetry cafe

Thanks a lot for the award :) I accept it.

I´d like to nominate Dsnake

Dear Alex:

I know you´d never hurt my feelings, because you´ve shown me that you care. But yesterday you hurt a deepest part of me: you hurt my art.

I once noticed, when I was playing violin, that you stared at me with doubt and a little bit of rejection. Perhaps I was not playing how I should be playing according to your idea of good music. I stopped. I thought I was being stupid, I thought you were right.

But now you´ve limited my art. You say I should not refer to things the way I do. You said that I should be careful of not flying too much, of not making it too sublime.

I am a writer, we are supposed to do that! We find words to make something simple the most sublime thing on Earth, because that is how we feel about it. That is how we see life: we fly.

I thought you were the one person on Earth that could somehow understand me, but now the hole in my stomach is back: you do not and you will never will.

Forever yours,
Dalhila.

Taking part in Thursday Poet´s Rally

Freud

Here I am, in class. Learning about Freud and how he classified us all like living beings who are nothing but a bunch of impulses acting and thinking just to achieve their sexual satisfaction disguised under a mask of art.
To be honest, I do not believe so, but dont tell my teacher or she'll be pissed off. I believe we're more than that, we're unbelievable: we're humans and that's all.
Oh my... How fastidiously vulnerable we are!