Scheherazade

When the raindrops shimmered in the flash of lightnings, her eyes were telling me a story about the desert. I looked at the fine water curtains that were whiffing the night. “You’ve changed the perfume, haven’t you? It’s a nice lilac fragrance.” “That bottle has a light purple ribbon…I guess it could be lilac.” Somehow the sweet voice of that girl singing soft jazz there, in the night, was not exactly the music of your story, nor the music of your scent. That whole setting should have been immersed into the sensual yumeji’s theme. To blend into the sharp image of crystal glass suddenly blossomed into one thousand and one pieces, revealing the slow motioned choreography of wine embracing the air. To caress your eyes shining and more beautiful than ever, your face line when you looked intensely. To bond with your lips that naturally touched the crystal then arched in smile. You may have caused millions of small transparent butterflies to hit the nerves of that smooth dark skin. Fingers and low-pitched sound rolling down the spine. Harmonic notes. Tenderness. I could have seen that osmotically hacking into your unspoken emotions that extended outwards for a very short time.

Photo:http://desert-winds.deviantart.com/art/Desert-Moon-307873723

whale language

I was lying in my bed, having an intimate wordless chat with insomnia. After a while I chose to focus on the pace of words bubbling out into the darkness through the wormhole thoughts you are not even aware of, on narrators voices, thoughts merge into as if they were softly caught in a chant, thoughts can fly in a low pitched voice to share simple sensations. Deep within an almost hypnotic state before I fell asleep somehow I felt the hold of your fingers on the top of my fingertips. As if our palms would have smoothly slid one over the other and fingerstalls remained clung, resisting separation, flooding mind with images. Your images, their taste and colorful smell, the feeling of seeing someone filmed through water, speaking with long and muffled sounds like the whale language in finding nemo. I wish I could have this language translated into a visual alphabet. Fluid. Able to reach you out. This would be the way to tell you more. No, not more. Only longer.

Photo: www.husseinchalayan.com/‎

Stroke of light

It was a bookstore café. And beyond the vanilla and cinnamon, it was a very subtle but persistent scent of paper and ink. It was not the place I had in mind, but I liked the purple flowers in a transparent bottle, the bright light green and royal violet of the cushions and the turquoise blue of the candle holders. It was cozy and colorful and the whole atmosphere was matching well with an ice café latte and the piece of white paper in front of me.
I was never good at writing letters. I was unhandy and sort of awkward with words. In the end it was a bit ironic to try writing a letter by hand in a bookstore’s café. The best letters I ever thought of have never been written. Those soliloquies refused to cope with paper. Life of such words is shorter than usual. Seconds. Imperceptibly the earworm had changed. A different tune with a different beat residually floating. “I remember”. Maybe if I would be able to transform the beats into the Morse code, what would I found out? What should I remember? But that letter was written and sent. It crossed the town to find a post office opened on Saturday late afternoon. Going back downtown in that yellow cab I had the impulse to look back. It was nothing in particular to see but a gray stripe of asphalt left behind. No marvelous sunset, no breezy sunrise. Nothing but a hot quiet summer afternoon in the suburbs. So, I did not do it. I think I have seen a shooting star on that late summer night, when the Perseids appeared on the northern sky. I was waiting for the bus. A short stroke of light hit my peripheral vision. I knew it was a shooting star. Few weeks after, in a small village near the sea, on a wild remote beach I saw it again. There’s nothing more soothing than to sit on the sand listening to the sea and watching the night sky. Big dipper. Tail of small comet maybe. North star. Contours of stars clusters. Sound of waves. That night I’ve seen you in a dream. You were sitting on a bench looking at me. I saw your dark hazel hair in that austere almost colorless church-like hall. I was so startled. My feet froze. I just saw you standing up and leaving that hall. I watched your silhouette fading away and my voiceless please don’t go was never heard. I knew I should follow but could not move. My heart pounding hard woke me up… please stay.

Photo: http://areaofinterest.com/post/38728828907/michael-chase