By Maria Duarte
This is not a sharp pain like a knife being stabbed in the heart,
it doesn’t hurt like when a bullet stretches skin to come in
the body, there is no bleeding, no gasping for air to enter
the lungs, there is no desperation to end this frenzy emotion,
there is nothing, only this calmness in my body
I am resting, my pulse is normal, my breathing regulated,
I have no desire to pull my hair or cut my veins
there is only this stillness in the pores of my skin
that knew before I did that you were going to leave.
Friday night longing
I want to feel your frozen fingertips
cease the fire of my skin by caressing
it slowly feeling my pores rise and follow
your movement like sunflowers in a clear day
I want to feel your lips kissing me
with a passionate force that leaves
my body grounded while my mind
is lifted to look over how your hands
pressed your body against mine.
I want to submit to the thrust of your hips
leading mine to the most satisfying act
our bodies are capable of giving our spirit.
And at the end when our bodies are left drenched
of energy I want to lay besides you and contemplate
our dreams on the ceiling floor.
Invite me to the fire of your skin without
the regret that will come back later; but be honest
in this exchange of what it is not in the eyes of the silent
moon. Where does the line stops? Which line you may ask?
The line of elusive righteous path which we are meant to take
but never really realize we follow. I have never followed anything
other than the beating of my own heart and even then I am not exempt
of pain. I am a fugitive of pain; I do not want it or require it to know
what truth is or who I am but in life itself pain is the pivotal point
in which we realize what truly means to be alive.
Alive is being in a sense of constant presence; of constant awareness
of the surroundings in which your body stands or sits or talks or is still.
Moving forward is being alive; not comforting to one state of mind
always looking for the way out of this line which is so tight that makes
you drown in your own spit and for what really. What is really at the end
of the tunnel? What is really the purpose of the actions we have done?
To be remembered, to be celebrated, to be forgotten. I do not aim for any of
these actions after I am dead. People forget that we forget people, it is our
nature to forget and look forward to what is in front of us.
We forget and that is what we do best in the absence of feeling alive. Our lives transpire
to what we can remember and what we forget until someone else reminds us of what
we have forgotten and then it seems new but in reality it is just an old action we have
forgotten, so we never learn anything new we only reinvent.