Monday, February 24, 2014

Eight Years

It's been eight years, you know.
Eight years since I started here
talking to you
though I don't know if you're here anymore.
Are you?
Who are you?
I wrote for pleasure
then out of guilt
but no schedules this year
I will come when I want to
just like you do.
Let's not expect more.
And yet, isn't that enough?

Monday, February 17, 2014

Friends and Lovers

I want us to be friends and lovers again.
I want to be young
and stay up all night talking
and laugh like there's no tomorrow.
I want to stop worrying about tomorrow.
I want us to forget the world
when we're together.
Not talk about work, and offer advice,
or other relationships, and offer advice
but hold on to each other
like nothing else exists.
 Because it doesn't.
I want us to not look at each other
and see failure
or potential.
I want us to not remember
our constraints, our weaknesses.
I want to be friends and lovers again
spend hours and days and weeks
urgently discovering each other
like we don't have a lifetime ahead of us.
I want us to not encourage each other to be better
to try harder
but to tempt each other
into playfulness, indulgence, pleasure.
Not that we ever did much of this
but we can start now.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

Mid-Month Reads

Mindfulness and recording moments are not mutually exclusive.

I liked this personal essay by a doctor who find out that he has a terminal illness.

This is an interesting essay about wealth addiction.

I love, especially this story about Eowyn (from the Lord of the Rings).

I have also been loving the Toast lately, especially this post about Bend It Like Beckham (which led me to this one, which is excellent).

And via Aishwarya, this delightful piece on Miss Marple, who is one of my heroes too(even though she is extremely snobbish).

What have you been reading?

Monday, February 10, 2014

I Am Not a Writer

I am not a writer.
If I were, I would have words
bubbling inside me
like indigestion.
Giving me sleepless nights
until I could get it all out.
I would have people
living out their lives
inside my head.
And struggle to draw them out
and move to my laptop instead.
I wouldn't live without writing
content myself
with writing for work
for business
for money
for middleclasshood.
I would be poor and write
or have a job and still write
and be poor in time.
I wouldn't be content with
having all I do.
I wouldn't be happy
because I have love,
and health, and peace.
I wouldn't be writing
just these few words on my phone
once or twice a week.

Monday, February 03, 2014

To the Guy, After Eight Years

Eight years, can you believe it?
Eight years of living together.
Not quite all our adult lives
but nearly all our grown-up lives.
Does that mean I've never really grown up
since I've always had you to hold on to?
Eight years of moving in rhythm
of leaning on each other
not quite sure
where one leaves off
and the other begins.
Eight years without knowing
true loneliness or despair.
Of having a home.
Of being home.