26 October 2009


My love, my absence.
You have turned into a stranger again
and I find it difficult to wait
to become your mistress, your lover.
My sigh hangs frozen in this room
but I do not feel sad for the lack
of your delicious words in my hungry ear.

I replay a summer moment in my mind,
quite frequently.
Three in the morning and under a dark sky,
we stood up from the grass with shaky legs.
We spoke of something I cannot remember.
Over my black dress, I put on my blue cardigan.
I smoothed out my dress and with clumsy fingers,
I buttoned my cardigan while looking at you.
Your eyes, always expressive, became playful
and the smile on your face, excited and boyish.
You are so hot, you said
as I buttoned the last button
and smiled with unfortunately perfect
red lipstick.

Despite your temporary departure,
my occupied and furious angel,
I lust for your skin on mine.
I yearn for the touch of your curious tongue
on my collarbone and my hips
and that certain place on the back of my neck.
I long to kiss you slowly and deeply,
as your knee pushes my legs open -
you know how much I love that.
I need to know your fingers in my hair
and the weight of your body on mine.
I want to see you watch me with those eyes, those eyes,
as my mouth takes you in, deeper and deeper.

These days, my love,
you seem like only a dream.

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24 October 2009

Dear R________ ,

I remember the time we talked in class about our past times, our pleasures, nos loisirs. Name an activity that is fun and free, the question asked. We turned to each other and smiled, and that was when you taught me how to say the word for "quickie" in Spanish.

Despite your terrible tattoos and the fact that you often wear sweatsuits, I am convinced that you hold the secret to making women weak and successfully give into the charming ways of a man. You look at each and every woman as though they are the only one you have ever seen. Not simply a look, you respectfully devour women with your playful brown eyes. Above all, you know how to make a woman laugh. Not a girlish giggle but a hearty and honest laugh.

People like to confess to me and I learned some of your secrets. You seemed a bit ashamed to admit that you were indeed a gigolo in your home country, servicing older but attractive American women. A smirk curled on my face when you told me that. Perhaps, I should be disgusted at your former career. But, perhaps, it is quite the opposite. It's kind of hot, I thought to myself, I'd fuck him.

The last time I saw you, you were terrible. Terribly honest, you replied. You leaned close and said, under your breath, that I should take off my cardigan as you liked the tight, faded old t-shirt I was wearing. I shook my head and laughed. As I was leaving, you told me that I should call you. With a laugh, you mentioned - especially after a fight at home. Oh, you! Such a flirt, such a flirt.

Thank you for being the first person in this city, in which I have lived for five years, to flirt with me. I will miss the way you sing me songs in Spanish that include my name, I will miss the cat-calling and the winks, I will miss the stories of your country, and I will miss the way we laughed together about terribly dirty things which often disrupted the class. You brightened my day and made me feel beautiful.

Cher R____ , si les circonstances étaient différentes, nous aurions eu cette "rapido" dans notre école tout en parlant passionnément en francais....en anglais....en espagnol, avec nos lèvres...nos mains...notre peau. Oh, mon Dieu!

Prendre soin de toi,
Ton ami

22 October 2009

Dear __________ ,

I wonder what the hair on your chest would feel like under my curious tongue, that wishes to know so very much.


18 October 2009

Through My Eyes

sometimes, i feel most alive and most at peace when i am sitting on a lonely park bench with a book on my lap and an inky pen in my hand.

17 October 2009

Something Honest

Do you listen closely when I ask you how you are,
do you notice a certain kind of ache in my voice?
I've been perfecting the art of smiling happily
and speaking pleasantly for many years
so I don't blame you if you do not hear.

My love, you in the sweater that I cannot see.
Tonight, my heart sank as I talked to you.
You don't need to know the reasons why
other than there are too many words
hanging between my forlorn lips.

14 October 2009

In Need of Comfort

I'm not very pleasant tonight. I'm feeling dark and moody and weighed down by (minor) physical pain. Due to certain circumstances, I do not feel comforted. Due to said (minor) physical pain, I do feel I need some comfort. A kiss on the cheek, an embrace. Let me crawl up beside your body and rest my head against your chest and let it be okay to close my eyes for a moment or two. Let me cry in honor of the selfishly small mood that I am in, even though I do comprehend that all is well in the grand scheme of things. Take care of me. Everybody needs some comfort sometimes, I suppose.

But I have not heard your words in a while. Tonight, your voice would be soothing. I understand, though. All I can do is softly smile and know that you are on my mind.

I thought of your hands today. Long fingers and callused palms. I thought of applying hand cream to your hands. Not because your palms are rough from work -believe me, to discover your masculine, rough hands was a delight- but because ... I don't know why. Because it would arouse me to take your hands in mine and massage hand cream into your skin. For the same reasons that I imagine you playfully feeding me fresh fruit. Your fingers holding bright and juicy morsels, my tongue brushing against your fingertip as you carefully place a strawberry or a raspberry between my lips. Luscious thoughts. If only we were a little more daring back then - I would have leaned across the counter a little further for you and you would have placed a piece of that Star fruit into my hungry mouth ... Your gestures were very sweet back then - I feel as though I never thanked you for exotic fruit and dark roast coffees at work, waiting at snowy midnight bus stops, and mall food court grilled cheese picnics.

Ah, damn my sentimental mind and my taste for dancing with the past. It always rears its somewhat pretty head in moments like these.

12 October 2009


He once wrote a letter to a girl,
years ago and in the summer.
He did not understand the hunger
of her lonely, starless nights
and the city streets that haunted her.
For every letter, she wrote a hundred
as she did not wish to be forgotten
and if you listen carefully,
you can still hear her breathe a heavy sigh
in his honor
every time her mind does wander,
every time her mind does wander.

He once walked alone down a golden road,
years ago and in the autumn.
Brightly colored leaves beneath his feet
and the lazy sun, preparing for rest,
bathed his handsome face,
his skin still brown from summer.
The girl waited from afar
but she always listened carefully
to hear the crunch of the leaves,
wishing that those footsteps were his,
bringing his love closer to her,
bringing his love closer to her.

He once kissed her nervous, painted lips,
years ago and in the winter
as falling snow danced around them seductively.
Their breath hung solemnly in the frosty air
that reddened their cheeks.
At last, they were together,
exploring with soft fingertips under crisp bedsheets.
And they always listened carefully
for the tremble of two scared heartbeats
as their naked bodies were pressed together.
They knew that this won't last forever,
they knew that this won't last forever.

He once said goodbye to a girl,
years ago and in the spring time.
She did not understand the difference
of his scratching lust for solitude
and her eager desire for acceptance.
Her silent tears accompanied
his lonely letter box
and if you listen carefully
you can still hear
the devastating silence and the aching distance
of two lovers in mourning seasons ago,
of two lovers in mourning seasons ago.

11 October 2009

The Book Store (last night I fell in love)

I pressed you against the pillar
that we hid behind.
Music floated through our ears
and fingertips crawled
underneath our winter clothes to startle skin.
Our lips met briefly on a dare
that I cleverly invented,
last night in the biography section.

The words provoked us, the winter,
in this season of compromise.
The scent of paper was thrilling in our nostrils
and in seductive voices we spoke of stories
that we held in our teeth
as a disguise of our passion.
The smirk you wore so knowingly
composed you to me.
Your hands on my waist ached
and the book in my hand read -
"kissing madly all over again,
kissing madly all over again."

Our breath grew heavy and quick,
your whisper in laughter to warn me
of the danger of my words in your ear
and the poems on your tongue.
A strange excitement on the edge
of finding out and being found
by life and all the listening ears
beyond the pillar that we hid behind
and all the kisses that reddened our cheeks.
Swollen smiles and half-drawn eyes,
the music and the people that danced by
as I mumbled a strange sentence about history
that was left abandoned and unfinished,
interrupted by your lips against mine
and written as a dare
that you cleverly invented,
behind the pillar,
last night in the biography section.

Understandable Rules & Sad Morning Dreams

I suppose you can say that there are rules to follow in our relationship. I cannot call you just because I selfishly need to hear your voice on this sleepy Sunday morning. All I can do is smile, follow through with my daily routine, and claim that I understand.

Fueled by the ache of my body in various places, I had a dream about you this morning. It is rare that my dreams are laced with tragedy or fear. In my dream, you lived in a small house with lovely little flowerbeds and a short fence in the front. I knew you were inside your quaint home and I knew you were in emotional trouble. A unknown man, to both you and me, ran towards the house to get you out. I tried to outrun him, I tried to convince him that if anyone would get you out of your house, it would be me. He did not listen and pushed me aside. In my hands, I held my journal with the burgundy satin cover with a Chinese pattern. In front of your house, along a narrow cement path, I fell to my knees and cried. I opened the journal to see the two photographs I have of you. I touched the photographs with my fingertips, wishing I could touch your face and help you - somehow. Behind me stood another man. He leaned over and spread open my journal to a blank page. He took the photographs from my hands and positioned them on the pages. With long pieces of Scotch tape, he carefully tried to paste the photographs on the pages but the tape would not stick. Though tears stained my face, he softly laughed so close to me. I could not see his face but I knew that body and I knew that laugh. It was you.

I woke up, feeling low and worried. I know, I know - it's only a dream. Regardless; I hope all is well with you, beautiful.

10 October 2009

Summer Night Wishes

Bats and planes witnessed
your finger tracing circles
on my bare shoulder.

06 October 2009


Lately, my dreams have been so sensual. So selfishly sensual.

This morning, I had a dream that I was in a Portishead music video. I was on this deep red velvet vintage settee. I wore a black dress, which was wrinkled and hiked up, strappy and low-cut. I held an old book in my hands, which was thick and had a grey textured cover. In my fingers, I held a small, deep red object. Seductively, I rubbed this object on the textured cover of the book as I fell back onto the settee, my back arching and hips rising. When I wasn't touching the book, I was running my hands down my body, down my legs. I looked over to see a man wearing Clubman-style eyeglasses watching me. I knew he wanted to have me. Feverishly, I smiled and continued moving to the music....writhing on the settee....touching myself and the book cover with parted lips. I had all the power.

05 October 2009

Weep No More

There's something about doowop and old soul music that makes me feel like I should be sitting next to someone, making out like teenagers and steaming up car windows. Lips swollen from midnight kisses, hands exploring under brand new cardigans. Mmm.

You know, I'm not much of a dancer but I like the way your body feels against mine. And I think this song would sound great while my hips moved against yours ... or if you were to sneak up on my swaying body, your hands on my hips and your lips on that certain spot on the back of my neck.

04 October 2009


Reading through books of my writing, I found these scribbled on the back of grocery store receipts. I cannot help but smile. I wonder if you remember that time that you guided me through steps on making the perfect pot of rice? I must admit, I kinda regret never being invited up to your apartment to see your "dinosaur collection".

Thank you for the unexpected smile tonight.

PS) I had a wonderfully naughty dream about you last night.

To W, on his birthday

You were the bright-eyed boy from Orangeville,
who taught me how to appreciate the sky.
I was the girl from Winnipeg,
you called "the writer of letters and the sender of things".
Our eyes met in a sea of a thousand strangers
and in an all-knowing smile,
we knew that we would be lovers.
We learned to be honest through love letters ~
our curiosity and our confessions,
and, ultimately, the confusion of our heartbreak.
The smell of sunshine on sawdust still reminds me
of the gentle tug of that particular heartbreak
but "If I Were a Carpenter"* no longer makes me cry
and I no longer dream of you wearing that sweater
that you wore on the day you said goodbye.

That was many years ago.
No, I don't love you like that anymore.
However, I fondly smile at the thought of you
and sincerely wish you well in your adventures.
From time to time,
I visit your typewritten letters
and I know you do the same.
You'll always be someone that I'll never forget.

Happy birthday,
wherever you are.

*The Bobby Darin version of "If I Were a Carpenter"