Part One: Hearts that Speak in Foreign Tongues

The first time we kissed your lips tasted like whiskey.

The last time, the trace of alcohol was faint but present, when you went back to your life I tasted the tip of my tongue, that same sweet sting was all you left along with messed sheets that smelled like you.

Last week, I saw that tongue that use to tango with mine dance the cha-cha with someone else’s.

I did not want to share this in fear that you might read it but it’s what I do and I’m trying not to be selfish.

Also. I’m healing. It’s a process.

Through you I learnt that my body is my home and that I should not be soo willing to accomodate guests even if they just sit my living room.
That spoon of mayo or bus fair coin, turns into my eyes marveling at the way your lips curl and your brown eyes moving quickly underneath shut eye lids… It turns into me placing my head on your chest pretending I’m sleeping just so I could listen to your world of a body and think of all the things I’d write about to keep you alive. To keep you with me.

I should never offer my guest bedroom to hearts that sing in foreign tongues. We misinterpret situations. Maybe in your motherland she taught you that girls are nice toys to play with when not exactly sober and that lush bodies are meant to be fantasized about and fvcked the life out of.
I’m not about that life.
Also, I don’t fvck.
But you came back and there was more poetry to be written.
And you didn’t always come in alcohol flavour. Sometimes. You were sweet and gentle. Welcoming and alert as you picked the playlist for the night.
Told me to speak up. That you wanted to know. That I shouldn’t hide myself in that darkness. Stop acting coy. I did. And each time more things fell to the floor I realised we were in the room closest to my main bedroom. I recall taking your hand and leading you there. Let’s sleep naked tonight. I’m tired and it’s been a long day of moving baggage and hiding poetry about you.

You are welcome here.
Place your arm over my belly and reach your hand to my heart. You didn’t say no. You let us sleep, and later, hours after you could no longer sleep you woke me up by making my nipples stand. Kissed me and told me to wake up. Before you did nice things to me and this time there was room to feel a lot more than tongues. A lot more to listen. More oxygen to breath so that morning when you gently climbed out of bed.

Looking for your boxers and wearing them. Then sitting on the edge of the bed to wear your jeans. Then one time you actually sat down. I missed you as soon as you were gone. Crawled into your smell and dreamt about us.

My soul laughs with this memory. I folded the sheets and put them away.  I saw you in the hallway and instead of saying hi I looked down. You found me in the kitchen and didnt say a word, you washed your plate and I could still hear the pins falling to the ground over the sound of the lukewarm water.

I can still tell the rooms you have been in long after you are gone. Your scent lingers like I ghost waiting to mock me. I welcome it. Play chess with it sometimes. Trying to figure out how so many of my pieces ended up with you.

I let you read my diary. Only the parts about you. I watched your eyes darting back and forth as the edge of my pen kissed your lips. I couldn’t read you. I was glad then I was not glad. I wanted to know what you thought so I put on my coy jacket and didn’t bring it up. Afraid of answers, of satisfying my curiosity I didnt have nine lives.
I wasn’t in love.
I only liked you sometimes. The kind of like that makes it okay for me to open the door and let you into my home.
I was in bliss.
And I was in the dark.
Waiting for something that wasn’t coming back.

You could have said.

” thank you for letting me stay, I’ve already packed and I’m leaving. Not likely to return but it’s been great” planting a kiss on my forehead, “see you around.”

What you did say

”                                               .”

It’s okay. I’ve repainted the walls. Vomited your memory as I scarped for the words I didnt say to you in my throat. Some of the words you shoved back as you kissed me while we were speaking.

You are a beautiful book in my collection.
I’ve placed yours on the shelf.
To join all the other lessons I have learnt in life.


2 responses to “Part One: Hearts that Speak in Foreign Tongues

  1. Wow! Your words are intoxicating. The words wove through me like spider thread through air & they tangled my thoughts in seducing confusion, but in the end, only a beautiful potrait. Like love, I can’t quite put it in words, I could try, but never quite nail it. You inspire me to become a better writter, to stop letting my mind’s ink rot in the dungeons of my conscious unread and unwrit.
    This is beautiful. The kind of beauty that fades but still shines through. Like seashells after the creature they nest are long gone; like caterpillars that die only to wake to a different life… I could go on forever…

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