She Was.

This doesn’t look anything like love anymore. It looks like an empty football stadium after a sold-out game.

This doesn’t sound like love anymore. It’s the sound of breaking glass during an earthquake.

This doesn’t feel like love anymore. It feels like a long, hot shower slowly turning cold.

This doesn’t feel like a lover’s touch anymore. It feels like wire stretched taut.

This doesn’t feel like trying anymore. It feels like running in waist deep water.

This doesn’t taste like ice cream on a hot day anymore. It’s tastes like a thermometer underneath my tongue.

I don’t like what we look like anymore.

I don’t want to hear any more of those words.

Turn me over.

Abandoned found at www.unprofound.com

Right now I’m thinking about:

Bare feet on long, cold, wet grass. Tangled, curly hair. Tears of laughter. Sleep. Runny noses. A cat’s soft paw pads. Broken english. Bad accents. Icicles. Perfectly manicured fingers plucking guitar strings. Moonlight. Graffitied walls. The perfect apartment. Opaque glass sliding doors. Polished wooden floors. A kitchen I can cook in. Cigarette burns. Overflowing drawers. Empty bowls. Swimming in sand. Furnaces. Rust. Small, dark places. Dancing. Whether marrying Guy Ritchie robbed Madonna of her ‘coolness’. Letters, not email. Puppy enthusiasm. Tattoos. Keys. The smell and texture of the base of his neck. Honesty. Age. Knots. Strain. New friends. Old friends. Record players. Itchy Hands. Trams. Distances. Whether love really is ‘just a second hand emotion‘. Jealousy. Another spoonful of Milo. Political slogans. Lack. Exhaling. Inevitability.

I can’t find sleep.

27th of February

It’s all in the small things, like wordlessly passing you chocolate when you’re having a bad day. It’s in the knowing. It’s in the speaking without words. That small gesture is respite, and your shoulders unknot.

An ongoing theme but how could you not? Today the sun was shining, the water sparkling, we finished work early, escaped to the sea, and just sat together in the sun. Quietly. No loud desires. Shoulders touching, unwinding — quietly.

25th of February

I want to ride through the narrow, winding laneways of Plaka with you on the back of your bike. Sunrise after a long night out. Or, dusk — the beginning time. It should be uncharacteristically balmy weather for early spring. I want to wrap my arms around you tightly, feel my front pressed against your back. Lean in close, nothing separates. Smell of leather and your skin. My head resting on your shoulder, laughing, shouting to be heard. Your rough beard grazing my smooth cheek. High on sensation. High on possibility. (The magic in that word — possibility.) My legs wrapped around yours. Nothing to go home to. What’s home? Discovering previously hidden places together — yours, mine, ours, the old town’s. Stopping, walking, fingers entwined, your mouth on mine, deep, searching, new again (and again, and again, and again). Your eyes on mine, smiling. It’s been so long. Listening to you tell your stories, grateful for the music floating up to us — songs played I won’t remember afterwards. Living. The clarity of the light, or the sweetness of darkness. And secrets, secrets born in one of the many laneways so perfectly designed for stolen, suspended time. Stolen suspended time with you.

It makes me blush to want this so much. I hate this yearning.

(Last week, yesterday, today, I am so fucking in love with this city.)

21st – 24th of February

Because you can’t photograph the way your heart aches.

I have had the line “and when I lose myself I think of you” stuck in my head for days now. Also, “afta ta heria ine thikasou, ke tahis stili na me dikasoun, ine maheria pou ehoun to onoma sou, afta te heria, ta heria ta thikasou“. I would like them to leave now. Please.

Are pop songs the lowest common denominator?