she was nine, he was on tv, she’s fifteen, he was already on his own, then twenty twenty one, he was old before his time, “where did you guys meet?”
I don’t know I don’t know walmart, maybe, at midnight, he ran out of pop tarts, but he said at a party in London, too much gaps in
what we’re saying. yes but I have no sense of time and space. I meant we. we’re just good that way. of forgetting. of forgiving again. it’s toxic, I know, this infatuation
don’t look. don’t look where we are. we are too old now. we are stale
from same old stories. “fame tore them apart,” …not true, not true!
he wakes up then decades sprawling across and in and out of his bedroom walls
she grows fonder of distance, she took a step one day and has been running eversince. “what an unstoppable force she is!” was. was.
he wants her to wait but never quite saying it right. she keeps running and she lets him watch how far how fast her steps could go how her jaw her fist clenched. she’s got no time to spare, “but she has no sense of time,” he was so young, “but he was old before his time.”
I imagined Mum running wild with her ponytail, perhaps clawing her way at a concert to get closer to Dad on stage. I never picture her as a free-spirited human being (or a groupie who jumps around at a concert). In my mind she was timid and sad right after she was born. I noticed she forgot to breathe at times, she was the epitome of absence. It’s hard to imagine her being beautifully present. Even to this day I couldn’t for the love of god see the very thing that made Father fell madly in love with her that he literally gave up for her his fame, and eventually, his life.
And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can’t ever be fixed, and this is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it’s already happened.
It was when I looked into your eyes, I realised I came from a long journey across time, before yours nor mine. I knew this from recurring dreams. They were so vivid that when I woke up, my arms my feet my body were sore and tired. These dreams were more than just a realm in my subconscious, they were real.
In my dreams, I have your eyes, your smile, and everything’s new under the sun. In my dreams I was lost looking for something, anything felt like a mother. In my dreams, I too was abandoned, unwanted. In my dreams, I was you.
You were to me my long lost son. I see you, and I see him too, in you. I wanted him to be: something you. One and the same, exactly like you, just as if he came out of copying machine. I named him after you. Now you never again have to look for something, anything like a mother.
day one. dark coffee, abandoned building, a pile of classics: joyce, dante, zola. day two. endless driving, darker coffee, my heart palpitated in halts. tiny déjà vu. day three. turned off instagram(s). lay around on the grass. napping. dreaming. a land faraway. day four. wrote about the ocean. so blatantly. mundane and irresponsible. called you to tell you i did it. you paused too long. i hung up. day five. long walks to the orchard. long walks back. hours on treadmills. more coffee. irish. my heart exploded. day six. wrote sonnets. iambic pentameter. bad. really really bad. read them to you. you said don’t hang up just yet. day seven. beachy sunrise. pancakes overdone. overrated poetry books. blogged mean things about you. you read it and kissed me. the end.
dear me dear me
i checked you off my bucket list, turning you from a dream to reality
giving ways for envious eyes staring when i held you with me
you’re so pretty i could not resist this temptation, the poetry i’d be
but destiny is as cruel as it can be
i broke you to pieces, a whole again i might never be
dear me dear me
this is what life tried to tell me, nothing pretty comes for free
they keep telling “you’re milk and honey”
and that “the truth will set you free”
but i know better than to let these demons be
taking up space in between deceit and sincerity
when all i ever wanted was to go back being me
dear me dear me
being pretty never comes for free
thank you Ayas, for letting me write this with you.