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I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it’s you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

I will slither into your skin, be enveloped by your spores, soft and gentle and vicious. Fill every molecule of you with proper fractions of my selfs; disbelieving your fundamental beliefs, and lay side by side with you. By reciprocal actions, you will do the same for me. We’ll have picnics, go to Greece, see the Acropolis, read books, laugh under the autumn sun in between Madrid streets. All is one, one is all; do you see that? Imagine through imagination.

Come thither, read my mind like a psychic. I could write all day and travel endlessly and be tireless with you, shiver when winter comes but you take my mind off it, ice skate with snowflakes falling, walking and tumbling down, running and smiling. If you accept my complete wistfulness, my sporadic judgment, fleeting happiness, my impracticality when it comes to tidying, my dislike of sleeping, my eagerness, my selfishness, my expectations, my life, me and

if you let me,

I will love you.

(This is for you, )

There are things due. Emails to send, all the people I need to talk to. Everything that needs to cling on to a sense of urgency, overload with sirens. This unmodified silence. The gravity of assumption. Everything is draining away. Leaks away underneath, between the toes. Androgynous and slimy, squeezing life. Minute decays, falls away and shatters. Merry-go-round music, the retro haunting fun fair orchestra murder mystery. Blu-tack figures, small people holding hands. Run away, run run for your life, run for your love

No I will not wait. Tell me the love of your life, I will tell you small pleasant surprises. She will be delighted. She will throw her head back and smile at you, she will thank you, she will fall in love with you.

These are stories I can tell. Sprouts of new life, new beginnings. Ends of strands. Too many fullstops. More fluidity. Less less less less than > or more than that?

run for your love

” Hey Jude, don’t make it bad
Take a sad song and make it better
Remember to let her into your heart,
Then you can start to make it better.

Hey Jude, don’t be afraid
You were made to go out and get her
The minute you let her under your skin,
Then you begin to make it better”

Sing it to her and make it better. Not me. Not you. For her.

Today I woke up to find my ankle sprained, without knowing why or how. I guess these things happen more often than you think.

Today, good ambience, good people and an email made me happy.

But I still don’t know what to do with myself. Torrents of affections keep finding their way but they detach so quickly I don’t know whether the sentiments in that fleeting transient moment is enough, they’re too much a crisis for me to handle. What a pathetic emotional downpour – do I even use these terms? It’s as though all the curiosity has leaked into a puddle and they’re trying to dilute a stiff, dense version of a soul so we can all see it on display in the museum. We can study the biomechanics that works within it, we examine the inches and latitudes of it even more than this universe so we can observe what makes us tick.

I don’t know what I want, now. Time is nothing but a separate dimension, and it’s timeless how ironic and no interferences. I don’t know why, or how, and what, and where in time, where I’ve dislocated something and it’s run off. Now I have to be Little Bo Beep looking for her sheep, clueless lost innocent

I’ve misplaced this so-called identity (if we even have one) and maybe it’s gone missing.

Missing is a funny word. Misplaced, misconduct, miss, mistake, m i s s i n g

If that’s the case, I am missing.

I am plagued by long drags of silhouette and bits of conversations, they anchor their weight on me as if I’m a vessel. I try and shrug them of by telling myself they’re just feathers, the most harm they’ll do is tickle. I like the rainy cold mornings and where I can put my palm against the windows and I see condensation and trailing raindrops that I can’t touch. I will move through the air and it will smell of reminiscence, the way that air floats though everything, even time. I will remember and I will be able to smile as I try balancing them in between my fingers and not letting them fall. Everything will plunge into the crux of our souls, and I await for something to break my reverie, even something as delicate as whispers will trigger an avalanche of delirium and impulsive reactions.

I look at my birthday cards, they’re just as staunch as me. They all read “happy birthday” and “you mean a lot to me” but do I? I don’t instigate anyone’s ability to do that but it will strike me as odd when those coloured cards only find their way to you in the moment of happiness. I have no idea where this passage of syllables will lead me to because I am apprehensively clueless today, when I try hard not to be oblivious and annoyed. I fall in the category of solemn and airy, if that’s any comfort at all.

I will try and make you understand but you won’t. I look at myself on somedays and I don’t know what I should feel. On certain days they come stronger so I know to feel angered and desperate, on others I just fall short and debate with myself if wilting or feeling raw is a better choice.

You’d think anagrams are amazing the way they alter something’s meaning, the way everything is altered slightly to fit the circumstances in their best state.

So I will wait and I will think

“how long will it last?”

“It’s not like caring about someone is enough to actually sustain you”

I believe that I’m living off quotes and death sentences, because they attract you like bees to honey and all that jazz. I’ve been sleeping through peeps of waking moments, floating adhesively and attaching to a safe conduct. We have a white carnation in the bathroom dipped in a coffee cup bought at a garage sell and it makes me associate it with death. I’m no botany genius, but I know enough that carnations are beautiful things, just as we are. I also realise I never get tired of all these chasing metaphors, even if it makes me tired and dream of the weirdest things. I want to write beautiful things like being dipped in death and leaving trails and traces and saying Diphtheria is a beautiful and deadly word all at once. I want to learn the things that loves and kills us, and figure out all these questions – even if the questions are listless.

I need to know.

I hope you don’t sleep well at night.

I don’t wish you the best, but instead I wish you the worst. I hope you lie awake ruefully, unable to sleep even if you’re brimming with fatigue because you need to feel the ache in your disjointed arms and disproportionate self-image. I imagine you to be mummified like a sarcophagus; so fucking well preserved on the flesh but dead in the soul and nothing more. But honestly, what are you living for? I am running out of metaphors and also because I’m tired and I don’t want anything to do with you. This is a chagrined anger dipped in disgust and I hate you I hate you I hate you I wished I didn’t have anything to do with you. My propensity of likeness towards you go beyond the negatives and I want you to witness this and be hurt a thousand times over; I will rewind every frame for you to see what this means.

You deserve everything you’re feeling right now, just so I can laugh and pity at your pathetic words of “oh you’re not pretty”. Well darling, who’s prettier now?