Mirages and ink bottles.

I am a pen. This might sound like a metaphorical exaggeration, or an ornamented fact, but it is what I am. Every time I hear the same song that you loved on the radio, it’s like a cut on the side of my arm, and the ink just flows out. Every nick and cut that I get onto my calloused skin, just turns into a bruise that I wear as battle scars and gripping stories. Every time I look at the sunlight through the tinted windows of my car, I cannot help but associate the golden hue to the hazel of your eyes. Every time I look at the vast emptiness that expands beyond the final steps of a cliff, I cannot help but imagine the jagged rocks hidden in snow to be my best friends crooked front teeth, or the jump to the bottom to hide stories of wonderland. You never know what’s hiding just beyond the point your eyes cannot see.

I don’t consider myself a writer, or the pen as a fancy extension of my arm. I don’t believe in using words to heal my pain, or writing as an escape from this cruel world. I don’t make routines and set time periods for the words to find a way out, and I don’t plan on keeping them inside of me where the dark waves can hit the sun drenched sand and wipe them away. I am not a lonely or broken man wandering on hot sidewalks among a cluster of thoughts and people, wondering why you left me, or why no one talks to me the way you did.

When I see the wailing child staring at the ice cream vendor as if that’s all he ever wanted, I cannot help but smile and think about the wishes I’ve had as a child and even as an adult. And when all of this stays in my mind, my brain becomes a volcanic land with words as molten ink, erupting onto snow sheets, paper lines, and electric screens. I don’t wait for the right moment or for the memorable one. I just find things beautiful, and I let you know. When an injured boy cries on the television and countries blow up, or a young girl is found dead on the streets, or you’re just the happiest you could ever be, you’ll bleed blue too. We all will. There’s nothing hiding beyond the point your eyes cannot see, except mirages and an ink bottle.


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11:11s.

There are some things that bother me every night after 2 AM, after I listen to music with lyrics that do nothing except reminding me that you’ll never be mine.

It bothers me that I’ll never love someone this way ever again. Love changes everyday, and it bothers me that you’ll never be my constant. Someday, I might love someone else a little more than I love you, but I really don’t want to. I don’t want to fall in love with a brighter smile or a less scarred hands. Why would I when I can read your stories on your wrists in beautiful ink? Why would I when I can feel this strongly for someone so beautiful?

It bothers me that my wish of you being my first kiss will remain a wish. The world is not a wish granting factory after all.

It bothers me that I’ll never be someone you text when your hands fumble and your lips tremble and your sight blurs. It bothers me that I’ll never enter your mind when you want someone to talk to. I know I don’t deserve it, but when has that ever stopped anyone? When has worth ever weighed more than love?

It bothers me that every time you ask me something, I don’t know what to say.
When you wonder if you’re my muse, should I say that I write about you all the time, should I tell you that you’re my broken promises, 11:11s, the reason I believe in love, and my muse or just say that I write about you sometimes?

It bothers me that my always will never be your someday.


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Whisky flowers.

“She’s at peace, and yet somehow on fire.” – Samantha King

She’s the flower you give to your Valentine. She’s gorgeous and she just always smells so good?
She’s the scotch whisky you drink at a meeting. She makes you feel alive, and makes you forget everything wrong with you and this world.
She’s the autumn tree with golden leaves. She makes the world more beautiful than you could have imagined.
She’s a Polaroid. You just want to look at her forever even though she isn’t perfect. She makes you love photographs.
She’s the Henley that you wear on a date. She makes you look good, and keeps you warm inside.
She’s the mirror that you so often stare at. She helps you find mistakes that your own eyes couldn’t see.
She’s the star. She lights up, turns into fire and brings the world moments of ecstasy.
She is fire. She will burn you down, or warm you up. She will light the city on fire and have no difficulty whatsoever.
She’s a sword. The same sword your frantic eyeballs and sweaty palms try to find before the dragon wipes your existence.
She is the loyalty, grit and grace you need to be a man.
She’s the queen that has nurtured the deserving and cut in half the men who has tried to harm her or her people.
She is the cherry wine you drink with so much haste, not realizing it might be one of the finest you could ever have.
She is the knight beneath the heavy armors and metal helms. She fights monsters and demons and men. She cannot be defeated.
She is the beauty and the beast.
She is the #MeToo that should have shaken your existence, and filled you with shame. She makes you look good. What do you do?


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Midnight. 

It’s late, and I’m still thinking about you.

​”I am addicted.
She is my bottle of vodka.
She is my cookie crumbs.
She is the eighth colour of my rainbow.
The colour that’s everywhere,
Except inside the rainbow.
She is my three A.M.
The three A.M. pain I write about,
And the three A.M. calls I don’t make.
She is my happy ever after.
The happy ever after in a fairytale,
In those tales for my three A.M. kid,
In those stories for my four A.M. demons,
In those lullabies for my five A.M. drowsy eyes.
She is my sushi.
She is my ‘one eyelash – one wish’.
She is my 11:11 ‘Wish, please come true’.
She is my cigarette.
Here’s the fucking problem.
I’m addicted.
And she’s my nicotine patch.”


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My darkness.

He did not remind me of big pretty things like the moon. He did not remind me of the sacrifices people have made for love. He did not  remind me of the stars lighting of the night sky, or the warmth of the campfire or the wolf howling for the moon. He wasn’t the night in shining armour saving me from this terrible terrible world. He wasn’t my prince charming, he did not kiss me back to life.

I have done all of that for myself. I did not need someone to fill those cracks in my heart, to make blood flood my cheeks, to clean those thoughts in my head. I did not need someone who made me feel incomplete to make me feel complete. Cause I know all that is bullshit. I am complete. I needed someone to stay. That is it. And sometimes, Lucifer does listen to you.

He was everything. His kiss was caffeine for me, waking up every cell of my body. His eyes nicotine for me, irresistible. His words had the effect of champagne, soft and sweet on happy occasions. On days when words failed him, his silence was Scotch, burning my throat. His laugh was weed that I always got high on. He was the drug I had at five in the morning, and the drinks I had at seven in the evening.

He reminded me of sunburns and dirty plates and empty boxes. He reminded me of sofas that have been jumped on too hard, and clubs where we made out. He reminded me of cassettes of old music, and books about war. He reminded me of jackets on a cold night, and kisses on a rainy day. He reminded me of movies we watched as we cuddled in a blanket too small for both of us.

He reminded me of sweat, shoulders and crumbs. He reminded me of conversations on things that don’t even exist. He reminded me of tan lines, dirty pillowcases and T-shirts. He reminded me of closed doors and lost keys and eyes too tired to stay open on the terrace. Not some wave moving back and forth hitting the shore or some light millions of miles away.

Yes, he was the conversation I had on the terrace as I put out my cigarette. He was the chest on which I lay my head, while cigarette buts and bra’s and shirts were thrown all around. He wasn’t some light, he was my darkness.


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Related post : Then how come it isn’t?

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