Dismissing.

I opened my heart calmly, performed surgery. I found what needed to be shared and bled onto a paper I later on digested through my brain.

I looked for the right words, the correct tones for you, each detail crafted for you. And so, I sent it as a weight inside me opened to reveal an even deeper anxious pain. Within it I slept in awful nightmares until the transgressing morning light woke me up, my body heavy still and my nose in pain. I am chronically tired, yet I used all that's left of me to heal what there is of us.

As I saw the green square atop and slid it down, my heart broke again. All the work for nothing, such a dismiss that made me wonder if you even read it at all. 

The story repeats itself and I don't know how to get off of the rollercoaster. I am done.

Si me quisieras.

Si me quisieras conocería el amor, tendría relaciones sanas y te compartiría de mi. Si me quisieras respetarías mis límites, escucharías a mi corazón.

En vez de esa constante competencia de ego que llamas conversar. En vez de acuchillar por la espalda a quienes dices amar.

Si me quisieras no sería un monstruo y tú mi víctima. Si me quisieras me habrías dado lo que necesitaba una niña.

Habrías sido mi madre, en vez de yo la tuya. Pero me diste un techo, nunca me faltó comida, pero ni pasé frío, como tú. Tu vida siempre es peor, tu vida siempre tiene una historia más. ¿Pero me escuchas? - No, es que yo, yo, yo.

¿Y al final qué pasa con lo emocional? Culpa solo viene de ti, y mi padre no hizo nada, no sintió nada, todavía no.

Me quiero ir y jamás volver por la pena que siento entre mi propia extranjeridad en mi patria y el dolor que ustedes cargaron en mi.

Y una vez más, sigo aquí atrapada en las palabras de alguien en quién no puedo confiar. Acciones que no van, dolores que se quedan.

Es por ustedes que quisiera nunca haber nacido.

Mal.

Foreign to my own roots, those who I shared deeply with and "me da lo mismo" now. 

Los cabros who never saw me as a friend, I was just an extra, "the girlfriend". So much heartache has this visit been.

Y quizás debería dejar esto para vomitar mi dolor en vez de intentar escribir lindo, si al final para esto es que creé el blog.

Me duele, me duele, me duele el corazón. Mi vacío se re abre y crece mientras mi madre llora y mi padre se cierra, mis amigos no eran mis amigos y estoy confundida y sobre-estimulada. 

Tengo un cansancio profundo otra vez, siempre alerta, siempre con cuidado.

Caminando en cáscaras de huevo le dije a él.

Qué dolor ser extranjera donde nací, qué viaje más difícil. Tanta culpa, tantos finales y uno que duele mucho más, lies.

Santiago es horrible y el anonimato es definitivamente aquí, es definitivamente mi padre, es definitivamente mi vacío. Descubro esto mientras se agranda y traga toda luz, por esos a los que no les interesa, por esos que ofrecieron mentiras, por dolores olvidados del pasado que se re-abren y sangran.

Me desangro en tantos dolores.

Por qué es tan difícil? Sólo puedo pensar en todo lo que está mal conmigo, pero ahora parece tener n Qué hago? Qué hice mal? Qué sigo haciendo mal? 

No sé. No sé. No sé.

No sé qué está mal conmigo, pero hay algo profundamente mal.

No hay respuesta de quienes me amaron tanto, y tampoco de los que no. Siento tanta rabia, sabiendo que es puro dolor. 

Cómo acepto, proceso y dejo ir, cuando no entiendo qué estoy haciendo mal? Cómo aprendo si no lo veo?

Siento, siento y me sobrepasa. Cómo encuentro las respuestas cuando hay tanto dolor?

Cómo dejo de sentir culpa padres? 

Cómo dejo de llorar en silencio por esos que eran y decidieron no estar más?

Cómo dejo ir un amor tan protector que me pena con pecas y ahorca con rulos negros infinitos?

Estás en Italia? Vi nuevas vistas de allá. No puedo ni explicar lo que siento.

Lo que sea que tengo, eso que está muy mal conmigo, no deja que entienda las emociones, ni las pueda procesar. Como el pacífico las olas me inundan, me ahogan y no veo la orilla entre los dolores que habían, han habido y hay.

Santiago, Berlín, Valparaíso-Santiago. Cómo te lo explico lector invisible, niña que soy? 

Sé que tengo amor, cuatro. 

Mido en eso mi valor?

Y ya no me siento buena ni para hacerlo sonar lindo, ni para que sea verdaderamente un alivio escribir. He perdido algo de mi en estos años y volviendo a estas tierras encontré más heridas a pesar del increíble amor, esas tres risas eternas que me llenan el corazón sin siquiera intentarlo. Criaturas increíblemente humanas que amo con más que todo mi corazón.

Y ustedes ven qué hago mal? Me dirían, por favor?

Abuelita

 I wonder for how long I could write if I just let my mind roam freely through the keys, I miss my piano, even if it was plastic and shitty, it was given to me by my mother and the holder by my grandmother. It was a nice birthday that one, they picked me up from school and as I walked into the house I saw a massive present all wrapped up in a colourful paper, leaning against one of the wooden chairs of the dining room, which was also the living room. It was a warm and bright day, unlike where I am now. I was wearing my sports clothes, white, grey and red, it was still the fancy school I was in. 
I didn't use to get big presents, not since my dad had moved out, after all the failed businesses, the fried chicken store and my mother's anger because of my dad's "wish to help" or his lust... I will never know; the gym that never existed, but the machines were in our back yard, unbuilt for several years; I am sure there were more, but my memory isn't that great.
These days I remember with a darkness that doesn't match the light of my home country, unlike where I am now.

I was shocked as I saw this tall, thin wrapped present there, I looked back at them, my eyes shining as if I had discovered that magic was real, they smiled and nodded like saying, go ahead, it's yours. I walked to it carefully and began to meticulously open it.
The shape was so strange, I had never felt something like that, it had weird rough corners, attached to metal tubes and a middle knob that one could turn: It was a stand for a piano.

The thing is, I only had a tiny keyboard for children, its keys were so small I could barely press one without touching another two with my skinny girl's fingers, they giggled as my mom told me to go upstairs to get the toy, but I didn't realise the meaning of those laughs. I ran up and then down, placed the toy on top of it and said a hesitant thank you, I wanted to be polite. That was the present from my grandma, and no one, on any side of the family had much money.

I had learnt to play "Für Elise" on that tiny thing, it had a button with which a part of the song could be heard and I found which key made what sound. My mother thought I was a prodigy, I was about 8 and it was indeed a toy piano, but still, the idea of being a prodigy because of that makes me laugh nowadays cause in a way, she was so desperate to have a child who would be special that she lowered the bar really low for the typical things in which a child would be deemed as such, instead of seeing our actual talents and helping us go for them.
To be fair, there were no "white sheep" in our family, we are all very strange and quite fucked up.

They asked me to play it for them and it was really hard because the shape of the stand was an "X", so the smaller the piano, the higher it would be, and I might have dropped it even, I can't quite remember. 
This is the part I don't remember so well, they were expecting me to be more "viva" and see that there was another massive box at the other side of the table, but I didn't, so they only sent me to get the toy, to come up with a plan to make me see the real thing.

After I sadly played the damn bit of the song, my mom said they were going to get me an electric piano and asked me to go get some magazines that were on the other side of the table. I was so excited that I went there, took the magazines without looking at what they were on and went back to sit down with them on the couch from which they had seen my entire performance (of the whole birthday so far). 

I opened the first magazine and noticed that they looked at each other funny, but I still couldn't really tell what was going on, I just felt very anxious and nervous, too many emotions in the room, so much hesitancy. 
Suddenly my mother said: "Oh look, you forgot a magazine!" 

I looked over and replied: "No, there are no other magazines", to which she insisted: "Go and check WELL". I walked over, right under my eyes a big rectangular box, wrapped in wrapping paper, I looked at its right, left, over, under, behind and in front, there we no other magazines... "Mom, there are no more magazines", they laughed now together loudly, and I was just confused, that is until she said:
"Alright Dani, bring me that box in front of you"

And as if her words were magic, I finally realised that right in front of me was a big rectangular box, wrapped in wrapping paper!! My eyes shone, my heart lightened, the anxiety and hesitancy of the moment had dissipated, the mystery was solved and their emotions were lighter, no more tension!
My mouth opened in awe as I took the box, which at that point in my life was way more than half of my height, and barely carried it to the middle of the red carpet in front of the couch, where they were still sitting.

My mother and my grandmother, my two beautiful carriers, at different times, with different pains. 

I wish I had had you for longer abuelita. I wish you could have taught me to knit more, which I love so much today still, I wish you had told me what your favourite book was, or if maybe you didn't like to read, it could be since you had to work from a young age, like everyone else. I wish I could have enjoyed you more, we could be so close, we both love tea and sweets, to bake and play "rapidito" and "carioca". Maybe we could have gone for walks at the beach and told me stories of your childhood, maybe baked some cakes. I wish I could have your "arroz con pelotitas" just one more time. It's strange to think that I didn't really know you, though you were with me until I was 12 or so. It's strange to feel that I miss you so much sometimes as if a part of me was missing. Maybe though, it's just that wish to have someone to talk to, that wise old woman I never really had.

I unwrapped the box, opened it and plugged in the most beautiful, amazing and best gift I ever received, I started learning "Menuetba", Menuet by Bach it meant, but all the names were minimized since the screen was tiny, those old screes like calculators. That song makes me think of you, your "After Eight", and anis candies, the sugar cookies and the smell of the knitted vests you gave all your grandchildren every year. I loved the little bows and that you made blue, yellow and pink ones, but I always had all the colours. Your knitting was supremey beloved Elsa.

I still remember later on, when you fell off your bed and it began, the end. It was a big concern, the blue eye you got and stayed for a long time, the constant doctor visits, the tests... It happened so fast when they found the lumps on your throat and couldn't tell what they were. It was supposed to be a quick operation, just to take a sample for the biopsy, just half an hour. And I couldn't say goodbye.
It kept taking longer, hours, the whole night. When my mom went home to take a shower, to rest from the tension, she walked out in a hurry, calling everyone because she could feel the exact moment in which you left this plane of existence. Right after, she got a call and broke into tears.

My dad was there, but I can't remember much after that, some "velorio" at the church, the cremation and taking the urn to the beach house, the one my grandpa and his uncle built, the whole complex for people to have holidays at "El Quisco", I miss the smell of that house, the red cold waxed floor, the scary room at the back, where he made experiments with cables, solder and electricity, the lemon trees in the backyard, collecting and burning the leaves in autumn and the eucalyptus forest beyond the fence which was just some sticks and we used as a shortcut to get to the beach. I can't remember the end of the forest, only a tree where my mom took pictures of me.

Did we leave your body there, at our little chapel? Did we take my grandpa out when they took the house away from us? Our story is filled with injustice, isn't it? How can I let this go?

Did you meet Matilda? You would have loved her, such a beautiful, charming girl, just like all of us in the family, definitely coming from you.

I miss you abuelita, I wish I could talk to you again, heal the wounds, fill in the gaps, learn your perspectives, get to know you, make you laugh, make you feel loved. I wish I could eat your rice again, I couldn't ever make it like yours. Before the frozen "primavera" bags came into existence, you used to take so long to cut the carrots into tiny perfect millimetric cubes, says my mom, and in that meticulous trait of yours, I find myself. Or do I find you in me? It depends on how we decide to understand time.

Thank you abuelita for plotting that birthday present with my mom, it's one of my favourite memories of that time. Thank you for all the vests, for all the little sweet treats, for your love and your warmth. I wish someday, I can give you my gratitude in a hug, those tight and warm ones that you know I can give. I miss you more than ever today.

El peso de la incertidumbre

 Hoy la pena me vino más tarde, la noté tipo 18:30. Estaba hablando contigo a las 16, no sé si tendrá relación o no, pero al final, el pecho me duele de pena igual.

Ha vuelto ese océano que tengo dentro y que no encuentra escape, me lleno cada vez más de agua salada y duele. Estoy cansada de tener frío, quiero sol, o tengo hambre otra vez?

Quiero agua, pero está muy cerca del teléfono, no lo quiero mirar, pero me muero por hacerlo. No quiero pelear más, soy?

Los registros, 2 días. 1 semana y 2 días para la prueba y los nervios apretan la piel que contiene el mar infinito que me he vuelto. Cómo descanso?

Después del 19 tengo algunas tareas, pero empiezo a bajar de niveles al fin.

Cómo reconecto con mi poder?
Ay que me pesan las relaciones, no sé si será suficiente para mi en soledad, no sé si conoce quien soy. Pero tú, mi vida, tú tienes tanto que crecer, tanto que conocer, tanto que avanzar y yo ya no puedo dar más, tengo que dejar algo para mi. No soy tu maestra y tengo mi propio camino que andar, mis propios aprendizajes y crecimiento, tu sabes bien cuánto me falta y cuánto quiero.

La mente lo sabe mejor que esta consciencia tan dispersa que tengo - meditar, pero de verdad. Hay tantas distracciones, tantos miedos y pesos que necesito soltar, soltar soltar.
Cómo descanso?

Y ahí viene el dolor, el peso insufrible del miedo al futuro. Qué hago para establecerme, para mantenerme, para cumplir esos sueños que iluminan mi corazón?

Siempre quise tener a alguien, pero esa es la maldición de mi madre que no sabe de estar sola, sólo de soledad, incluso en compañía. 
La vida me ha traido a un momento y un lugar, en el que deseo el apoyo de otros seres que me ayuden en el plano terrenal. Seres con sueños como los míos, pero propios, que trabajen para lograr esos sueños y podamos compartir esta vida, nuestros miedos y dolores, nuestros logros y alegrías. El apoyo de avanzar juntos, de cuidarse a sí mismos y los unos a los otros. 
Pero siempre partiendo por ese cuidado de una misma, el ponerse a una primero, después la otra.

Yo no tengo eso de ningún lado y me cuesta ponerme a mi primero, más ahora tras estos años de dolor y peso. Tanto peso.

Cómo re-aprendo a ponerme primero, a mantener mis límites y a no ceder ante esas tentaciones de las heridas antiguas? 
Tengo tantas heridas, tantos dolores, he olvidado tanto de lo que aprendí durante la reprogramación de mi mente consciente, de mi cuerpo, de lo que es físico y tangible...

Cómo vuelvo a mi después de haberme perdido completamente en ti?

Evening sun

 

The sun shines through my window,
but the veils between us keep its warmth away.
Like a distant star, I wish upon you,
but my faith isn't strong enough,
you can't make anyone else's dreams come true,
only your own. 

So many words within your asteroid showers,
yet the empty spaces between them is what strikes the hardest.
You shine so beautifully in your infinite depth,
a darkness I can't grasp.

Loneliness isn't a sign, despite Cancer and Aquarius, the hermit might object. 

I miss your shine as I know I can't stare into your light without burning my eyes, your welcoming warmth should have never been for me, the arctic breeze I am, the chills on your neck, exciting yet ephemeral.

Can you see past me, my lovely?
Can you see further?

You see me in colour yet I have none,
I'm transparent as the fresh touch of a lost summer wind on your skin. 

You, my sun, you deserve the moon and more, I, unlike, deserve water and soil. Who are we to mix the gods with the cycles?
With all my pain, with all my love, I wish you well in other hands, some that can bring you what only gods can yet I'm unable to.

I'm nothing more than a feeble, passing breeze. I can't sustain a god, I can barely be me!

La pudredumbre.

 Ay, por dónde empezar? Que tengo 27, pero pienso que tengo 28 desde los 26, no. Que me siento mal, otra vez, estando lejos de mis raíces, estando estancada en un país de robots que todo el mundo idolatra, por ahí va.

Tengo una sed que nada me la quita, ni el agua, ni el café, ni la lluvia, ni el humidificador. Siento la lengua siempre seca, como si fuera una lima, como la que mi mamá usa para sus uñas. Hoy vi mi cuerpo al intentar aprender las técnicas que quiero usar en mi día a día y me poseyó algo entre asco y vergüenza, esas palabras que dijeron mi madre y hermano en el auto cuando tenía 15 años aún me atormentan en cada movimiento de este cuerpo deshecho.

Soy un cuerpo deshecho, una abominación. Hace tiempo que no me sentía tan mal, tan asquerosa, una sensación demasiado familiar como para que se vaya, siento que esta se queda, no sé cómo botarla.
Me mueva o esté quieta, se hace más fuerte, se funde con los cimientos de mi mente, toxificando mi jardín que llevo años cuidando.
Debe ser que soy tan mala para cuidarme como soy con mis plantas, todas están vivas, pero no felices. Quizás nunca voy a ser feliz, o quizás es que la felicidad es sólo momentos que confluyen durante una vida y nada más. Al menos tengo mis textos. Aunque ni para eso me siento buena hoy.

La mediocridad duele cuando al crecer te hicieron pensar que eras especial, duele que tantos me hayan alabado durante mi vida cuando la verdad es que soy otra más del montón, incapaz solidificar lo que existe en mi interior. Ni mi cuerpo, ni mi voz, ni mis palabras son suficientemente buenas, estoy atrapada en mi mente, en el aire.

Estoy cansada del aire, quiero vivir en mi barco, en la realidad, sobre el agua, tranquila. Sé cuáles son los pasos, pero tantas cosas me mantienen paralizada al borde del abismo, entre miedos y falta de recursos pienso en esas personas que se han hecho famosas y millonarias compartiendo sus talentos con el mundo, no como yo, que lo hago también, pero no soy suficiente. Me pregunto si es el miedo que me tiene acorralada o si es algo más, será que no lo merezco, o será que es suerte no más?

Cada día intento hacer lo correcto, tantas decisiones de las que soy consciente, tantos sentimientos que me derrotan porque otros hacen lo incorrecto. Porque no me vengan con que la dualidad del bien y el mal, tú sabes en el fondo, siempre que haces algo malo, tu cuerpo te lo dice, y sí, algunas acciones están en el area gris, pero la mayoría son claras como una poza de agua en total quietud.

Me siento deseperanzada y desesperada. No entiendo lo que hacen los gobiernos y no sé qué hacer con mi vida, porque tal vez lo que me paraliza es el aborrecimiento que siento contra este sistema que nos fuerza a tomar todas las decisiones incorrectas.
O quizás esa es la nueva excusa que creó mi sombra para hacerme sentir un poco menos mal por estar estancada desde que nací. Intentando protegerme de ese odio que mi madre inculcó en mi, ese que sale a flote cuando mi cuerpo se mueve pesado y cansado cuando lo que quiero es ser liviana y activa.

Filo, filo, filo. Nunca voy a encontrar una solución en todo caso, no sé ni para qué escribo cuando nada sale, nada avanza, nada crece, ni mis plantas, ni mis objetivos, ni yo. Todo está estancado y huele a putrefacción ya.

To the Self.

       It might be a good time to write, I thought, but never really imagined I'd get to do it so quickly. The keyboard was right in front of me and suddenly the screen was full of strangely familiar characters that welcomed me home as if I had never left.

       It's been a while, my dearest love, yet here you are in all your tenderness and fury, ready to tuck me in as the child I become sometimes. Thank you amor, for such selfless love, you're a waterfall of compassion and patience, understanding and more. Where would I be without you, I wonder often, but not often enough to remember that, even in the darkest of times, after years of drought, you are still blooming somewhere in the sand storm, and I just need to plant myself on the ground to find you again, and you'll be there, as always, with all your love, ready to take me in and nurture the neglected garden I can be.

      Today I decided to go against my mind once more, this time for a good reason. You reminded me of how great you can be, no matter the quality of what's to come, you let me put it all out, right on your lap as you knit me a blanket of words and warmth. My darkest fears, my deepest wounds, no matter how cold the caves, you can always draw the honey from within, and feed me light. Such powers were only allowed for gods, I thought, but I guess we all have the universe inside us, and that is those so-called gods.

      Thank you for staying with me, believing in me but never pushing. Your teachings have always mattered the most, so has your love. Buried under concrete for so long until the roots of my soul found you, calmly taking your time, trusting you'll get out, believing in my strength, knowing that, no matter the pain, I was tougher in my infinite tenderness.

       And I am, still. So I thank you, for never leaving my side with your acts, your mind and your words.

Rats (revised. A fantasy of October 2018)

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A dive into the comfort of dissolving -Part 1, incomplete.

 

There was an earthquake in my soul as I sat, soaking wet and still dripping, on the blanket. I shivered in a cold I haven't felt for years, it looked like giant green eyes reflecting the flame of our heater, hands between thighs on the third step of our staircase.

It's suddenly winter and I have called you three times, you said thirty minutes, but it's been three hours since, now there's no answer and I wonder if you died in a car crash. The pain is so big, both your deaths and your broken promises that I fantasize about dying myself, the imagery becomes real in my soul and I am doomed to wander this three-floored, cold and empty house for eternity.

I am still laughing with this beautiful human by my side, in this beautiful spot, in yet another beautiful day, but my fingertips know. The hairs on my legs, my heels, the space between my ribs and the depths of my spine, they all know that there is a lead orb keeping me from truly holding this hand, a very real, loving hand; so I let myself be pulled for a couple of minutes. It's so heavy, fighting wouldn't take me anywhere but into my head, so I roam through words into a darkness I've not quite missed but feels just like home. 

I float through the pain, as I hear my mother's voice, she's crying because she says I don't love her. I see her hands, she has freckles on them and she hates them, she hates her body, she hates herself too, but man she's good at pretending. The phone rings and in that second she cleans her tears and answers in laughter; you'd never known I, again, made her cry. 

Suddenly I'm on the other side of the line and she's sitting in a strangers living room, she's lying to me, she's trying to hang up, to get rid of me: "I'll be home in thirty minutes", it's the third time she's said the same, "but the more you call me the later I'll be". Talking about choosing your battles, or which promises to keep. I'm sitting on the staircase, alone, the house triples its size and as the sun sets, the darkness around me grows, and all the horrors come to these green, wet, eyes. My cheeks feel cold, my nose is red and I suddenly fell off the window of my mother's room when I was trying to see if it was hers the car that just opened the front gate of the community of houses; it wasn't. But I see her and my dad crying over my corpse because their daughter was found outside the front door with her skull crushed against the red ceramic tiles of the entrance and bled to death, alone. The doctors confirm that it was not an instant death, she suffered for hours. 

In the meantime, I am forever here, alone, in an eternal sunset that feels as cold as the early mornings going to school. I feel desperate and trapped but can't open any door, nor window. The only view is the empty space where my mother's car should have been. Claustrophobia comes and I can't breathe anxiety filled my lungs, it overflows out of my nose and mouth, and ears and eyes. I sweat darkness out of every pore and all is enclosed. The green eyes are still looking at the flame of the heater, now the teacup is empty, a full bladder and the fear of all the ghosts in the house. I can't move, frozen, loneliness and pain, left alone to roam the dangers of imagination in a broken house.

"Why would you bring me to this world?"

---

I'm floating away from this memory, the pain is real but the logic is indestructible, words burn like suns:

Narcissistic, selfish, generational trauma, grandma, El Quisco, Catalunya. Ego, ego, ego, ego, ego, ego, ego, ego, ego...

The green eyes meet my fathers', now between the 9th and 10th step of the staircase, my middle finger is pointing at him, I gasp and run upstairs, get into bed and cover myself with the pink duvet of the Rocket Powers, as he lifts his hand and runs behind me mumbling some words I didn't quite understand, he reaches my room at lightspeed and sits next to me: "why did you do that?". The wet greens close as the darkest black comes and I'm away again.

"I'm sorry dad, I can't remember what happened then, but I'm sorry. You were also just a kid and I was a too-sensitive-one, just like you. Thanks for not hitting me that day, but you could've kept your word of doing it; at least I'd have a reason now, but instead..."

In the green Opel, he's picking me up from school, he'd been staring at high school girls from the gate and I feel his lust as I walk toward him. We sit in the car and I don't understand why each time he touches my knee from the pilot seat I feel a goosebump of repulsion and I freeze trying to detach my leg from this body I inhabit. He has to change gears so he lets go and I move my leg away; it's the only chance, but I can't be too obvious, how could I explain? I am trapped in his car. His, Him. My first model of a relationship with a man, with him, who has betrayed me. He who promised to protect me, to keep me safe from the horrors of this system, from the horrors of this world, both palpable or not; He, himself made me unsafe, doubtful and left me to roam these pains, these doubts, alone in fear, in uncertainty and helplessness. Another one who's gone, unavailable, incapable of love. Man, that hurts. 

My greens are wet now, my cheeks are as well, my soul: depleted, I feel empty when these memories come to haunt this broken child I carry inside my guts and I wonder if it will ever get better, or is this it, my doom? Cursed to carry the pains of those who didn't care for them at the right time and passed it on to us three children, and a fourth now.

--

A love.

"Where do you think it comes from? What does it feel like?" -


You are a light of sunlight on my skin,
Warm and bright,
hope-like.

How could I not love you
in the grounding, simple love,
you show me every day?

This unwrapping of ourselves,
slowly to our guts,
feels like the moon at any phase,
like you at any day.

I didn't know how easy this can be.

You showed me that love
is not a drowning wave of darkness,
but a gentle salty lake to float on,
in peace.

In this void that holds it all,
where I don't need more
than what you wish
to give.
Instead of an endless pit,
to be filled.

Your love feels like the possibility of everything,
in the infinite nothingness within.

The source.

Like how there's no sound
without silence,
your love brings the calm,
my love brings the storm.

And so we flow gently
like waves
in the Pacific
of our souls.