She said I was on her mind,
and that she hoped I was happy,
so I made her a mix tape of all my mixed up feelings, and hid it at the bottom of my wardrobe,
where we used to reside,
residents of the heartbreak hotel that we ran together,
like an old married couple.
She told me I was hers,
and I couldn’t get enough of it,
how it felt,
how it sounded,
how it grounded me.
Our bodies speak while we are silent,
and even from miles away,
I dance to the sweet melody of her.
Hola amigos,
You can now stream and download my new single, a remix of my song Dream Girl.
Besos,
J x
Meekly, she comes before me,
her lips parted as she prays,
aching and consumed by the cruelty of life before love,
it’s way past time, but I let that pass me by, and I just hold her.
Reborn, like a saviour on a Sunday,
I am fresh in her fantasies,
lace on my skin, petals in my perfume,
overboard in our oceanside dreams,
vivid and vibrant,
eternally violet,
standing out against a colourless sky.
All it took was a few steps,
swept from one world to another,
high as the spirits that carry our secrets across borders,
like little love letters.
I held her, and she was safe.
Our love is an old love,
a one sided passion that surpasses the soaring sun and the ageing oceans.
You have given up sleeping,
gazing at me as the night turns to day and the day returns back to night,
frightened that I will find my way back to the wilderness where you found me.
Please don’t be in love with me.
I have pleaded and reasoned,
but, unlike the seasons, you stay strong,
never leaving, so having no need to return,
and I fall asleep without a word,
without a kiss,
simply asking for you to change your mind.
You tell me that you’re in love with me,
and it’s the same old game.
Darling, what did you go and do that for?
What a foolish folly from an old fool with everything to lose,
and nothing to gain from getting in my callous carousel.
You’ll attract more flies with honey,
and more of hunnybee with diamonds,
so I cut up your credit card and robbed you in the night,
so that I wouldn’t be available for your purchase.
The lady is not for turning over and waking up with you,
and the lady is not for lunatics,
but still,
your insanity prevails,
and so does mine,
on another cycle of self hatred.
I often wonder how it feels for you,
butterflies and birds camped out in your core at the thought of me,
because these are the things I cannot taste or feel,
and when I stop fighting,
and let you find a way back in,
it is wicked, wanton self destruction.
I want to be hurt,
feeling nothing but burning on my skin,
soaked in shame and sin,
crying a chorus in time with your sighs of satisfaction.
I fall to pieces in the peace of afterwards,
my dinner dancing up my throat and down the porcelain as you wait outside,
trying to tell yourself that it’s just my nerves, as usual.
I’m the sweetest siren in your address book,
entirely because I am always unavailable,
but knock on my door, you do,
leave your longing on my voicemail, you do,
because you want to be hurt as badly as I do.
My lavender love,
aching amethyst that starts in my core, and crawls up through my body,
until my mind is conquered and quite mad.
There is a violence to your violet stare,
that look from across the room as I iron your shirts, and recall the time we were in a bar, and I told you, with no hesitation, that you needed a wife,
and you gave me that same look,
a gaze that gives an indication that my body is no longer my own,
and that my soul is on borrowed time.
Look at me now,
all asunder,
cooking your meals,
sewing up your shirts when they tear,
ironing with sweet lilac tears in my eyes,
because I miss the sadness that came before you,
I knew what to do with it,
but this? This gentle joy that trickles down the day,
from sunrise to sunset. This, I do not know how to handle, because I’ve never had it before.
I dream of a boat, in the breezy hands of the ocean,
fast and loose,
with drinks flowing and my honey at the helm.
It never sinks, and it never rusts,
it just parades us for the spectators we find at sea,
and I cook your meals,
I sew your shirts when they tear,
ironing with sweet lilac tears in my eyes.
You’re sweet to me,
home at a reasonable hour with hydrangeas behind your back, and a wicked smile,
and then you kiss me,
while my back is pressed against the warm oven,
wrinkling your shirt,
as if you enjoy watching me iron.
Sincerely, Jennifer x 