reflections in spring

I’ve done so many embarrassing things, most of them drunk. Sometimes I’ll think back to old me (or whatever) and the person I tried so hard to be or not to be.

Back to nicer memories?

I loved the way you snuggled me in your slumber. To be fair I hated it too, claustrophobic in your sleeping arms, your rumbling breath in my ear, tickling, irritating, too hot, too close… But I loved it just as much. Your skin gentle, voice low and quiet, rhythmic, a soft caress. Despite physical closeness I felt uncomfortable sometimes — too loud, too needy, too talkative, too there. I watched myself, kept myself in check. When we’d first met, it was easier. It must have been the abrupt change of living situation that swayed us, me, to such trepidations.

I don’t know why you’ve been on my mind so often lately. I don’t necessarily miss you, nor did I ever want to be with you longer, or want any more from you than the pseudo-married life of which I got a taste of there. I never knew what you were thinking and I found it hard to adapt to. I guess you made a lasting impression. Perhaps that was part of the reason why. Through and through I knew you as good, pure, with ambitions and a drive to pursue them without the fear of appearing selfish. None of the underlying shame I feel in everything I do, you inspired me to gather my own courage. Now that I write you down, wrap around you a paragraph, all parts of you neatly encased, I can appreciate the incentive to pursue my own selfish dreams, for all of their worth. Without them, what am I worth?

I kept waiting for life to start but drowned years in a bottle of Stoli’s. Today I am confident, proactive, and hope to proceed as such. Verging on 24 and feeling old when at 18 I’d cycled alone, barefoot around Thailand, on a bike picked out with one of the many boys that wanted me, then, the happiest I’ve ever been, swerving through the tangle  of Bangkok traffic, he chased me riding delirious into the dusty sunlight.

That was the happiest day of my life. Freedom on a bicycle.

These moments are precious but fleeting by nature. They can’t be pinned down, and would never last a second longer than they already did; a rubber band will always snap. All that we can do is be grateful that they ever occurred in the first place.

reflections in spring

curled along a river

I remember a warm late morning, we were at a long river. I remember it had wound with us, around us, on our walk through a park, where many older folks were sitting, all of us along this river. Lovers and families, I remember, and us, too, in a sort of daze of love, hazy around us, the beginnings of my first feelings for you growing tangible in the honest sun. I remember thinking, wanting, to someday be someplace like home with you, old and surrounded by family, friends, families, but I can’t for the life of me remember who you are.

Had I dreamed you up?

curled along a river


Open the door in your overalls, naked beneath,
Oh, just painting, my hormones a fever to pin you to a wall, freshly coated and all,

Instead – meekly, yeah, I’ve been alright, no, but yeah, so, I’m just gonna go.

Lingered a moment then retreated inside, your own insecurities aside,
Your jovial demeanour, as usual, and I guess that was goodbye.


still a type of friend

there is a boy I met on my first day in Copenhagen. well, my second day, but my first morning. I’d arrived the night before; this morning was sunny, bright, I felt confident albeit jet-lagged. At the station, I was trying to figure out my way to the university for the start of my Danish course. Confused, I had no idea where to go, wandered over to the map plastered on the wall, a boy in front of it, I start: “hi, do you know …”
– “I think we’re going to the same place,” how could he have known?
– “the Danish language class, right?”
Of course. It’s only natural to assume that every lost-looking English speaker on this morning was making their way there … I guess?
We took the train together, “are you homesick yet?”
Are you kidding? I’d just landed, I hadn’t been home even 3 airports ago – where is home? “Nah,” I’m not even thinking twice about being here, right now, my body may have arrived here but my spirit is still meandering in its track.
18, I was there once before. First trip even longer ago. I’m not that old, true, but I’ve been coloured-in a bit by now, that’s for sure.
“You’ll still be my friend tomorrow, right,” I ask, as we’re split into separate classrooms.
Of course, but tomorrow fogged our minds with more novelty.
We tried to reconnect over email, first, then texts, but somehow neither of us was the type to push it. Both inclined to be the easy kind of friend, there but not, we met only by chance, on a dance floor, the middle of a weekend, a tap on my shoulder, I look around !!! envelope him in a hug, “I know we barely know each other but I love you, dude” I yell above the music, a cliché but it feels right,
– “I love you, too” he laughs,
We break apart and somehow our feet miss each other for weeks all over again, sometimes a girl wrapped around his lap, sometimes a scarf around mine, at discos and in doorways, and I almost like it better this way, friend.

still a type of friend

no body

I remember feeling
foreign in my flesh,
surroundings, neither, familiar
but the feeling, so familiar:

Silent against my words, damp, trite.
you held me, delicately
tracing my arm
on the floor
under the bright lamp,

Was it me you saw
or my parody?
You kept quiet and I realized it
never mattered anyhow.

no body

body pains

how many homes I’ve called my own.

how many homes I’ve woken up in;
stretched out comfortably,
took a bath, and made tea in,
and returned to all over again.

how many homes I’ve stumbled into;
in the dark hours,
half-eyed but still,
into the right bed in.

how many homes I’ve bent my shape to;
hidden my expressions into
cracked cabinets, between
bedsheet creases,
and dusty pages of books strewn.

how many homes I’ve called my own,
felt at ease in,
doubled over in affection for;
how many homes
except my own.

body pains