{ Happy birthday, C. Thank you for walking with me for the past months. Hopefully, you will continue doing that for a long time from now on. Something great will come your way, I know it. Wait and see for yourself. }

I have been thinking, maybe, just maybe, some people are not really meant to be happy? But what does it even mean, after all? How do we know we reached happiness? Is there a crossroad that reads ‘’Turn right for half of happiness’’? It is such an abstract term, some perceive it in colours, others want to feel its touch on their skin, all of us are somehow searching, reaching out our hands, spreading our fingers with the intention of grasping its fathomless tail. Some people talk about happiness saying they found it, others turn their heads in disbelief. Some of them look down, analyse the curves of their ankles, while some try to explain how it feels like. Happiness is abstract, but most of the times people tend to refer to in connection with love. We always choose love, in a way, don’t we? Whether we admit it or not, whether we are aware of our reasons or choose not to overthink, somehow, our actions, our intentions, they all have this way of somehow caressing the shores of love, be it for a split second or for a whole season.

Some people are lucky enough to say that they have found the love they have been searching for, in the form of a human whom they call their own and possess in many ways. I have always wondered, can you call someone your own? Can you claim their atoms and replace them with your own? Can you boil their blood and pour it where your capillary ends? Even if you are in love with someone and feel the need to attach yourself to them, is it right? You are selfish, oh, how much you would love to penetrate their veins with a pair of scissors, to combine your spines and intertwine your lungs, how much you would love to be able to navigate the sea of brains without a compass to show you the way… But can you, really? Should you? Someone told me, no matter how close we are to someone, we could never be the same person. We could never be one. But that’s… wrong. That’s half a truth. Love is not about claiming your rights over someone, but about claiming that person is, indeed, yours, in a twisted way; they are an extension to your little finger, they are the continuation of your unspoken thoughts, they are the next step your heart takes during the marathon. My grandma used to tell me this: ‘’My dear, don’t make homes out of people, because people are like waves; at some point, they may drown you, or even worse, they may leave you on deserted land. Don’t make homes out of people, because you’ll end up homeless.’’ But how can I not, how can I not?… How can I not want to come home to you, to rest my bones under your touch, to close my eyes under your breath? Teach me, teach me how, teach me how to build a home above the sea level, so that both of us will be safe.

Some people, however, are not so lucky, and they do not find love. Maybe they have unrealistic expectations, maybe they cannot get attached to someone, maybe they did once and it did not work out, maybe they do not believe in second attachments. For so long, I tried to push this thought at the back of my head. I did not want to deal with the possibility. The possibility of… what? Of not finding love? Of not being loved back? Now, I don’t push away the thought, I welcome it. It only gets a little daunting when it’s 3am and I find myself sobbing with a cup of red wine, trying to remember the last time I kissed someone and felt something. Somehow, I am beginning to embrace the possibility. I do not want to refrain myself by my desire to with someone. ‘’I want to be loved’’ seems like a convincing excuse, but one is loved in so many ways, we just want a specific type of love. You want to sip from the big cup, like others do. And that’s ok, as well, no one can judge you for wanting that. But when you walk down the street and your eye catches a flicker of love, when you stop, turn your head and take in the view, take in the feelings, the promises, and you ask yourself: Why not me?… as if there were something wrong with you, as if being ‘’alone’’ were something to be ashamed of, that is not ok. Know that there is no weakness in being alone. You have always had a home, and that is yourself. You can race after love, if that is your decision. It may or it may not happen, but you choose to act on it. You pack your bag and squeeze the map between two sweaters. You can focus on other things, too, and that is your decision. And it’s valid. Everything you feel is valid. You are valid. You can take up painting, you can enter a poetry class about Neruda, you can take ballet classes. You can go ice-skating with your neighbour. You can visit an old relative. You can rent a moto and run towards the sea to swim in mid-September. You can finish your education. You can stay in your hometown, which is imprinted into your skin like black-less ink. You can pack 2 suitcases and move across the continent for 4 months, to try a job, to take photographs of the mountains, to volunteer. You can learn Japanese. You can be your own and still intertwine your fingers at your back. You can be with someone and hold their arm at night, when you cannot sleep and your tired mind makes up names of constellations. But don’t force love. Don’t chase it even if you are breathless and your knees are numb. Don’t think it is the only thing that makes you valuable. Do not settle for half a love, for a quarter, for a slice. Do not be afraid to leave when it’s time, or to enter when it feels right. Do not get used to the feeling of a warm bed. Do not stay even when the clock is going backwards, ticking away the drops of sorrow, one by one, counting them, throwing them into the abyss. Do not hold a hand you no longer caress with your thumb. Do not lose sleep wondering whether to give them another chance. Love is what makes us human. Love overflows and holds us, twists us, but it cannot be fooled or sliced in half. It cannot be messed around with. It cannot be bargained for nor borrowed or lent.

People are like waves. They are always on the move, they are so full of life and yet they are ready to die out. They erupt and drown the land. They retreat in fear, leaving everything behind. Their existence is cyclical. Some of them are braver and lead the others. Sometimes, they whisper, and sometimes they make you go deaf. Waves, one after another, they fascinate, they march and conquer everything. Waves, waves, the circus of madness is here with a complete representation. You take out the ticket from your pocket and hand it in. You enter the room. There are no seats, everyone else is already there, standing. You push people and get to the front. You put down your backpack and exhale deeply. The first wave kissed your left brow and arched your spine. You cannot move, you cannot speak. It leaned again, this time touching your iris. Now your eyes are emerald blue and you are suddenly not afraid of the sea. You let it cover your body, you surrender to its strength, to its delicacy. You are now a wave yourself, the daughter of the first-born midnight wave from one century ago. You look down and see your feet of salt moving, swimming, dancing like acrobats. You close your eyes and you suddenly know. You’ve know all along, but your eyes could not picture it. Your hands could not feel it, so you must’ve assumed it’s all lies. But now you know. Happiness exists. And it comes in waves. One, then another one, the low tide comes uninvited and  leaves later than it should. You sit on the shore and mumble the words you’ve known since you were barely walking. The waves shout them back, and you are happy. You have never been happier than you are now, and you will never be as happy as you are now.

              So I waited for you, we met at two and thirty,

              Listened to Kreutzer’s Sonata in andante only

              You pointed at something behind me, shouting ‘’Yellow”

              I turned around and saw a stroke of brush, it was following us

              Vincent was painting over our faded colours.

              ‘’I don’t like yellow’’, I whispered hiding at your chest.

              You didn’t say anything, instead you held me tight

              He painted us both as two circles drifting towards one another

              Into that sea of dark blue, my eyes were hurt

              I suddenly loved your bright yellow; you smiled back, and I was saved.

Apology letter

This is an apology letter to myself, to her, to everyone who has ever felt this way. It may seem to arrive a bit late, but the truth is, it’s never too late to learn to care for youself. My dear, you care for everyone else, but never for you. You go days without eating so you can send him money. You calm yourself down after a nightmare just so you don’t wake him up. You fight your own battles, and you also fight his battles. You see the good in him, even when there is nothing but rust and shadows, but you fail to evaluate yourself to your worth. My dear, this letter has no expiration date. Read it, then reread it. Memorise it. Put it in between the covers of a book, or on your nightstand. Believe it, because it is true. I promise you, there has never existed something more worthy of sharing, more real than this. I swear to you, this letter is imprinted in the shell I carry around with me, instead of a backpack. Someday, I’ll welcome you inside and show you its walls.

‘’I’m sorry I was late. I’m sorry I was missing, but I had no idea I was. I only learned the story long after the railroad lost its track, long after the first pebble went missing. I was weak too, so I was trying to mend myself. But even if I hadn’t been, I couldn’t help you as much as I wanted to. My voice was cracked open and it did not reach you, it broke in the middle of forming the wave. I eventually turned my eye from the night’s sky towards you, because I heard you crying. The half-wave hit you and you screamed in horror.

I picked up the leftovers among the already-formed knots and tangles and sat down, hurting my fingers in the solid mass.

She poured her soul in front of him. She was only learning how to manage herself, but she learned to put him first in between two heartbeats. She painted her world using only strokes of blue paint, her new favourite colour. She learned to cook, she learned to mend wounds she never knew existed. Slowly, she learned to please, to obey, to blame herself. The same hands that were caressing his temples late at night seemed now useless, good only for choking her newborn tears. She gathered seas and threw them in the old garage owned by her father. She hurt her knees when she was whispering prayers she hadn’t ever learned, all of them for his happiness, his well-being. For him. She never spared a prayer for herself, thinking he would protect her. She gave herself as she was, full of promises and ripped flaws blurring her edges. She was wearing this nice hat, with an emerald ribbon, which he took and put it playfully around her finger, and she never took it off. She had a lonely childhood. Words were coming shyly out of her mouth, her eyes bowed way too much; she was told she was no good. He saw her walking across the street, bowed and offered a consolation; he won her over in the time needed for hot tea to burn your tongue. He offered her a spot to sit next to him on a yellow bench, so that he could enjoy her features for one night, she offered him a spot to sit next to her in the bus going straight to nowhere, so that she could hold his hand when they were crossing the borders. He had told her once he liked her voice because it was soothing, so she picked up reading and read for him before he went to bed. Stop it, he said one day, I am no child. I am bored. You annoy me. She blamed herself for doing the same thing every night, so she stopped reading for him. She only read when she was alone in the bathroom, in the morning, with her feet in cold water, waiting for him to come back home. Back home, back to her. She fell in love so easily, so deeply, while still being vaguely aware that she could lose herself. The beauty of it was that she chose to go past that and grant him her trust. She cared for him as a mother, as a friend, and ultimately as a lover. She cared for him as no one had before. She was willing to spare everything to look after him. He was willing to spare a Monday night once a month to see her.

Now, she was reading so much, but she still did not understand. She refused to. She turned a blind eye to her senses and kept going, because the vertigo was tempting, oh, so tempting. Tempting like the sea during the evening in August. Tempting like a forbidden book. Tempting like the fatal sin. She chose to let herself fall, still hoping he would come to offer his hand again. He never came. She is still falling, to this day.

What she never understood is that if he was meant to be, if they were meant to be, he could find no escape from her arms. He would not have even thought about it. She never understood that the blue in his eyes was polluted by the black pitch of his madness. She never understood that he polished his shoes, but he never wiped his heart.

One night, when the dolphin was bathing in the moonlight, she came to realise that she had been wasting herself to nothing. She came to realise that her suitcase had never been fully unpacked. She came to realise that the blue could stretch no more. She came to realise that her palms had been purple already, and her feet were itching.

She stood up and her legs moved, leaving behind them faded traces of all the shades of blue she had been using.

She finally came to realise that she had been her only home, throughout it all.’’



Let me tell you something about her: she did nothing besides standing still

In the dark corridor, right beside the closed bathroom door

Everyone else around her was fast asleep.

Her thoughts were wild horses across the lavender fields;

She was an acrobat, dressed in hand-me-down deep purple

Who only knew to tame the old crossroads of her blue heart.

Let me tell you something about her: she was holding the universe with the apples of her cheeks

She breathed and a thousand new meteorits danced in sync around the newly-born suns,

She shook her head and the Milky Way fell on its left side, shivering with terror,

Her index finger was moving slowly, alongside the edge of the red skies of the East.

Let me tell you something about her: she was his silent guardian,

Made of young flesh and black bones that ignite during the season of the trade winds.

She was an anonymous angel with the corners of her mouth reaching the devil’s foot.

She slipped during the supernova rain and rode on the back of Lovejoy for 3 hours straight,

Reaching his house in the middle of a back-said prayer carried over by the unmoving waves of the Dead Sea.

She watched him sail the waves of his tormented sleep and moved her hand in zig-zag across his sweaty forehead where the spectres were fighting a battle long lost.

Let me tell you something about her: she was standing still, carbon dripping from her damp eyelashes

Her lungs filled with all the breaths she never took

Her atoms full of him, a spider-web starting from her hollow collarbones reaching all the way

Through the 90 degress arch his spine made with death.

She was standing still, eyes closed, heart-crossed, blood-emptied.

Let me tell you something about her: she was the last spectre of a dying earth

She lightly breathed upon him and sucked all the drained drops of life and strength

She kissed him goodnight and swiftly opened the gate which led to the underworld.

The Lady in Red marched in front of the troups welcoming the final chapter.

Let me tell you something about her: she was the first-born daughter of Lucifer

And she was beginning to walk towards her promised throne of horror and despair.

She was full of life, yet she only exhaled the inexorable scent of metallic death.

She looked him straight in the eye, yet she never truly saw him,

She never saw his angles and the complex non-Euclidean geometry which makes up

The whole of his body under the watch of the faithful fair maid of Saturn.

Her eyes were made not for seeing, but for stripping;

Her lips were made not for kissing, but for stealing;

Her whole being was made not for life, but for eternal sleep.

Let me tell you something about her: I was there, I watched it all through my broken spyglass.

She came and took him down, she raised her full glass of green-blood mess

And drank for the arrival of the polar night in the middle of September.

The air became tense and in the midst of the southern angst I finally knew the end was near.




The back of the lioness

I want to hold you for a little bit, for a few minutes or for as long as a summer’s heartbeat;

Hold my hand, love, hold it while we are running towards the very end, the deep end,

Of the train station full of the smoke choking all the old hearts.

I will hold your face in between the soft palms of day and night,

In between the shades of the changing sunlight

And warm your nose with my ecuatorial breath.

I will close your eyes with the whispers of the south,

I will take care of you while writing poems with a devilish mouth.

I think that perhaps I had met you, one month ago,

In the ancient realm of those who dance with their feet 5 centimeters above the earth

But you were wearing a cap and I could not see your eyes,

For had I seen them, I would’ve whispered your name, which I knew not.

Maybe I would’ve shaken my head from left to right

As do the ceaseless waves of my hindbrain when I trip a bit

Maybe I would’ve silently kissed the shadow of your temple or maybe not.

Maybe I would’ve given you the letter I had been writing behind my burning pupils,

A 7-words letter, exactly the number of days there are in a week,

Exactly the number of capital sins, exactly the number of seconds it took me to fall for you

‘’Meet me at east of the moon.’’, it simply said.

In that moment your silhouette dissolved as if it never had been,

And I was left wondering, wandering the fields, the beaches, the paths of the thoughts of a lost lioness

Asking from lighthouse to lighthouse

‘’Has anyone seen a man made of rain drops, walking towards the last post?’’

I’m still running, on the back of the lioness, asking the same old question,

‘’Will you meet me at east of the moon?’’

‘’I’ll be there by noon.’’


My fair lady

{ For A. Happy birthday, baby. Thank you for being who you are, for loving me, for walking together with me. I miss you. }

My fair lady of royal blue,

My fair lady of burnt sunrises and hue,

Let us dine together in the deafening chamber of our moving castle

Let me reach out and caress your left half-rib

With my numb fingers, with a single steady stroke

Borrowed from the wicked fairies which hide the devil’s laughter under their cloak.


My fair lady of sorrow and red angst,

My fair lady of unspoken words and eternal sunshines of regret,

Look at me, look through me until you forget the spinning of the clown’s head

Until you forget about the expected pat on the back of the moving dead.


My fair lady of light hope and wood,

My fair lady of droplets of doubt,

Answer me truthfully: why are you so afraid of the void?

You know, I can clearly see the frights on parade on your choroid.


My fair lady of unmoving love,

My fair lady of a 9-inch blue hole above the arch of your toe,

Let us dance the foolish dance of the giants,

Let us make love to each other under the shadows of the northern lights.

Liquid love

Last night I dreamed that you and I were drawing lines and we met at the middle of the paper, at the intersection of my left ear and your right eye. You and I were laughing as the sky was trembling, as the mountains were falling to the ground, as the seas were becoming dryer than the Sahara desert, as blades were falling from heavens and encircling us, building a cage that we could never escape from. You and I were playing chess on top of the mountains, along with the cold winds, on the edge of the sky, right beside the blue ribbon of nowhere, in the middle of the ocean, deep into its core made out of silent black covered in ink, right above the point where the rainbow begins, two palms away from our rusty shadows. You and I were falling in the abyss and you suddenly closed your eyes, and the darkness swallowed me whole, along with my screams and sorrow. You and I were burning down the lands with torches in our hands, a deep orange spreading all over and intoxicating us until our eyes turned grey and our hearts were left in the fire, to burn and become ashes and dust, like the whole earth. I woke up, frightened and shaking, but in the quietude of the night, curled in my bed, I heard your voice echoing from the other side of the world and I laughed as my heart was becoming liquid love.

…It’s like we are the same soul, split up in two frail bodies, thrown in opposite parts of the world. It’s like we are two old gods, two time-travellers, two damned souls who keep running towards each other, but something happens and they never meet. Maybe the Sun blinded one of them, maybe the Moon was missing one night and the other one had no one to watch over his steps, maybe they took the wrong turn and got lost in the maze, maybe fall came too early and they froze to death, maybe, maybe this was not meant to be now, maybe we should wait a little longer, a thousand more hours or maybe one more life. I’ve been thinking, maybe soulmates can miss each other in one of their lives, maybe we can never meet in this one, because the time, or the times, are not right. Maybe we are meant to meet elsewhere, on a new ground, in a new world.

It’s like we are two silent lovers, each one watching over the other from their part of the sky. It’s like we are the Sun and the Moon, doomed, destined to never touch each other’s skin, destined to never see each other’s eyes at dawn, destined to never listen to our heartbeats’ drawing  us, our hands intertwined, our bodies tangled like two strings, our souls’ dripping shades on canvas, destined to keep missing each other. You resemble the Moon, as you watch over my tormented sleep, and I am like the Sun, willing to keep you warm at any cost, willing to give up on myself as long as you get to wake up one more day. I recognize you with my eyes closed, I’d recognize you in a million worlds, under a million names and faces, for your soul calls me by the first name I have ever received, one which kept whispering I love you in every language there is, until there were no more languages and by the time that happened, I had already been dust thrown into the sea.

Maybe we cannot meet in this life, maybe we are right for each other but one of us was late and the clouds had already gathered. Maybe I will keep missing you until the day I die, maybe I will never be fully happy, maybe I will live a decent, comfortable life- but not the life I had wanted, not the life my heart was screaming for- maybe on a rainy day in November I will trick myself into settling down and I will close the back door which goes to the clouds, maybe one day I will forget about my pen, my notebooks  and the way my hand moves on the paper when I write. However, I will never forget your name, as it is written with bold letters, stronger than any divine power, into the back of my neck, at the exact point where you connect the wires and assemble a human, at the exact point where life itself pulsates. I could never forget you, for you are my whole soul, and your eyes are rooted at the core of my existence. Wherever I go, whoever I am with, you are here, with me, too. Whenever I laugh, your laugh doubles mine, whenever you laugh, it echoes back to me.

Whatever I am made of, I am yours. Whatever you are made of, you are me. We are liquid sunrises, liquid shooting stars poured into the horizon, we are liquid love spread across the universe, we are liquid, we flow, like time, we flow and we connect, we tangle, we get thinner and then thicker, we are time and we are expanding to the point of no return, we are time and we are running out of ourselves.

{ I heard your voice echoing from the other side of the world and I laughed as my heart was becoming liquid love. I was melting, I was turning into liquid and I gently kissed you one more time with my half-fingers running through your hair, I was melting and I whispered your name one last time, hoping it would last an eternity and a half- just the amount of time needed for the liquid to reach the end of time and come back to you. I was melting and turning into liquid love and I saw all my lives with and without you, I saw you in every form and shape, I saw you with hazel eyes and with green-emerald eyes, I saw you until the last drop of me hit the ground and the sound shattered the earth. I had been all done with, wasted, but so was the whole world. My liquid love covered everything, every inch of grass, every rain drop, every planet and dust speck, my liquid love ended it all }