Having someone to share life with is one of the most beautiful experiences. You eat together, you work together, you laugh together and then you turn on each other…and I’m not talking the Brokeback Mountain way. It’s that split moment when all of the ugliness inside of you collects together and begins to spew out of your mouth. The most vulgar comments come out from the deepest, darkest dungeons of your soul. You no longer care, you no longer have control because now that the venom inside of you has been unlocked there is no stopping it. Wave after wave of verbal abuse pours out from you almost tripping over itself to get out.

Then just as suddenly as it started, it all begins to calm down, you come out of the trance-like state and begin to feel the aftershocks. Oh wait, weren’t those the words you just uttered? They’re now coming from someone else’s mouth, and look at that they’ve grown fangs and look uglier then they did when they were coming from you….wow what a monster you’ve set loose on someone you actually cared about…

How can one truly feel love if they have never suffered the pain of heartbreak and crushed dreams? There seems to be a certain integrity in the depth of emotion that only comes from pain. Whispered nothings from a lover sound sweeter, an unexpected smile explodes into laughter and a simple gaze becomes an intense longing. Surely a love so deep can only come after pain?

“Bye, you ain’t never gunna see me again if I can help it, little felon, take it easy,
Fresh out of force tears, kisses, and hugs,
You about to lose the company your misery loves,
I ain’t never did nothing but try to cure your disease,
At least help the symptoms, instead you infected me,
I’m not the kind of man to draw a line in the sand,
If you gotta draw at all then it’s time for you to scram” – Brother Ali (walking away)

When the sun goes down. When the lights go out. When the curtains get drawn. It begins. This universal longing for lovers. Old messages will be reread, phones will be stared at, minds will wonder and hearts will hope for one more message or a call.

I came across a remnant of you by chance today as I held it in my palm I tried to conjure you up in my mind. I tried to feel some pang of regret, or pain even. I tried to remember your voice, your laugh, the way you made it so much better just by being there. I tried to capture that image of you that always made my insides flutter. I tried…I really tried. But, nothing. No pain, no regret.

I placed the remnant of you inside my favourite book. Hoping to come across it again one day. To remember how once upon a time you were all that mattered and all that I loved. All the broken pieces you left behind have rearranged themselves. This new piece is now made up only of the love and happiness of that time

Press play.

My favourite tune…

Certain frequencies trigger it.

No, the words, ‘Abusadora, Abusadora…Bendita sea la hora en que te encontré..’

If only they were merely words like the ones you’re reading now, my mental dictionary activated. Processed. Translated.

Stomach quelching. Hips swaying. Eyes closed. Why is there salty water on my face? The taste is one that forever lingers.

I’m not pressing ‘Pause’. The button with the two lines.

Fury. How dare you try to dictate which button I can/can’t press?

I’m me.

Sedúceme negra yo ya prendí la fogata. Se ven las luces de neon y el humo.

I’m not going to translate this one.

It’s my tune. You don’t own it yet somehow your name is on the rest of this damn playlist. Let me have this one song.

Just this one song…please.

Shall I tell you why I love you?

Guess…no, don’t…You’ll see stars, red roses or Celine Dion. Bleurgh.

It wasn’t your eyeslashes.

It wasn’t your cool Casio watch.

It wasn’t your charming smile.

It wasn’t your strong deltoids.

It wasn’t your tan brown shoes.

It wasn’t your well-defined mandible.

It wasn’t your kind hands.

You must think I’m deranged. It wasn’t your presents, nor the fact that seeing you at a 20 metre distance makes my heart blissfully skip a beat like a Hickory Dickory Dock clock with one arm. This thing supersedes you every time we walk towards each other especially on those wet windy winter days in the park. It gives me a euphoric whiplash without fail before lifting me off my feet into your arms.

It’s not your name.

It’s not your edible nose.

It’s not your soothing voice.

It’s not your hair.

It’s not your comforting gaze.

Without this, our love is rendered scientifically obsolete. Partially.

Its…

Your Smell.

Nothing you

Say

Do

or

Cook

will lessen my love for you…

SO STOP TRYING!

If everyone’s mind works in a different way, do you see that same way I see? Is the red that I see the same as what you see as blue? Or is everyone’s red the same as my red? Because then even though I’d see your red as my blue, your red has always been your red, so you wouldn’t know that I’d see it as blue. So when you say I’m seeing red, whose red am I seeing?