Love Letters
The host cat and I have become good friends. No longer does he avoid me at all costs but rather resides in my slippers when I perform my yoga activities. I think the only reason he does is because I have been known to sneak in some bits of Bologna to him despite the wishes of my house host. But now, he licks my fingers when I walk up to him and occasionally lets me pet him without biting me.
He kisses me on my nose and we touch foreheads looking into each other's eyes. He makes me homesick. I miss him. Over eight hours of skype calls can't replace the ten seconds of when his lips met my forehead and I know we're okay. This was about a cat and still is --directly and indirectly as he has joking wrote to his friends back home that I am feline-like in more than one manner.
I don't write love poetry --I don't write love letters. I don't tell people how I feel enough, I just want them to be happy no matter the cost. Money is not an issue --I'm an emotional millionaire. Please, take them away.
I simply smile at the natural world around as it seems to understand me without forcing me to say anything extra. My looks are enough for it, for him, for them, to know. But I'm trying. I'm getting better.
Good morning darling. Open your petals for me one by one spilling color to the ground.
Good morning sunshine. Rain your love along the meadows until they need no more, until they cry from your passion praying for sweet water.
Good morning dew that covers chamomile flowers from the nocturnal mist hiding the sea from towers to sea.
Morning of the haunting troubles no longer prevalent in the botanical garden of mystic --where the trees dance more than the visitors.
Take me from this world of turmoil within your branches.
Let me climb to the top of trees which hang their hair like Rapunzel swaying with the wind forgotten with age
Twist my bones in between your white roots
Leave my flesh hanging off of your bark to nourish your leaves.
Bloat my feeble reality of ground as I am not stable --I am unaware of what I am but I am sure the moss around me can laugh at the resentful footsteps of a body waiting for it reincarnation
I can take no more sorrow since I only bloom red rose daggers off my arms
Take me to beach cemetery of palm tree remains over tombstones
Cover me in lavender with sage to steady my breathing until the dying olive trees move my body to the shore where lilies can flower my disaster.
Night of the ignorant tourist within the botanic sanctity of mystic unknown to harsh soil.
Good night kisses left on fragile petals from hoping to extract more than a scent.
Good night heat. You make it hard to breath under covers of sweating bodies attempting to build their own tower waiting to drop their bases in order to create a new independence.
Good night mother. Release me to the garden where I can feed more than my family.
I used to have a bag of sea shells collected from Mexico. I hid them in my sock drawer in a big zip lock bag. Nearly all of them were collected in Mexico from the annual visits. But after Katrina hit, the sea shells were diminished to little scraps here and there.
Today, I walked down towards the blue water and picked up sea shells like a little kid finding the prettiest one that didn't resemble one another. I splashed my toes in the waves, the aquamarine waves no matter how close to shore. My time was cut short though and I had to dig my toes into the fine grained sand. Sand that coated my heels and embedded my soles --I had the option of washing it off but didn't. I walked bare foot up the pebble stairs dodge glass bits until I was forced to put my flats back on.
I swatted at my feet for a bit but the sand was cozy. Quite honestly --I didn't try that hard. The little particles were in between my toes and after rubbing and rubbing them out, a few pesky ones still stayed and I don't mind. My left foot still has sand in between my toes and I don't want it gone.
I went to a Russian super store with sea shells in my pocket
Dear NSA,
I would never be complete without your eyes over my Skype calls. My sleepless nights of cold Israeli sea mists and cries of little girls are made warmer with knowing you are thousands of miles away dedicating your early mornings and mid-afternoons watching my pretty pink lips move --move from the edge of your ear whispering "we went to Haifa today" down your neck and along your chest outlining the tattoo found on it. Your presents make my clothes too hot that the DSL cuts out --luckily you don't for hours. I have to close every tab on my browser to keep my hands off my body, from my aching legs shaking from excitement of taking down a city, from my fluttering heartbeat of being with someone who understands. You make me so sticky-icky when you click on my video; my clothes just seem to slide right off revealing a new tan coated with dessert sand. The sweat of the Middle East dissolves my clothes like sugar in black tea served best with mint and lemon. Thank goodness the video starts to cut out since I would hate my boyfriend to hear me moan on the other line --I understand your morse code and I want to say I .-.. --- ...- . you too. Don't stop, please. The static when we talk about politics surrounding the broken world fills more than my heart. When you alter his voice to chop suey, my nipples get so hard he asks how cold my bunker is. Really, I hate to admit I'm thinking about your efforts instead of my home state concerts. But the best is when we talk about my family and how their efforts were under appreciated but greatly respected in terms of immigrating and I cut out mid sentence, how do you know I am so tight and tickled that if I even inhale deeply the flood gates will spill over? Baby, I don't need his kisses, no, I need you nine inches deep in my conversation.
He kisses me on my nose and we touch foreheads looking into each other's eyes. He makes me homesick. I miss him. Over eight hours of skype calls can't replace the ten seconds of when his lips met my forehead and I know we're okay. This was about a cat and still is --directly and indirectly as he has joking wrote to his friends back home that I am feline-like in more than one manner.
I don't write love poetry --I don't write love letters. I don't tell people how I feel enough, I just want them to be happy no matter the cost. Money is not an issue --I'm an emotional millionaire. Please, take them away.
I simply smile at the natural world around as it seems to understand me without forcing me to say anything extra. My looks are enough for it, for him, for them, to know. But I'm trying. I'm getting better.
I realized my email explained poorly why I was so off-the-wall. So let me add to it. I was highly siked we skyped. I was ridiculously excited to see you and talk to you and watch you smile and laugh.
To round this together, in a country where no one seems to understand me and my direction in life, it's comforting, relaxing, pleasant to talk to someone who understands I'm not crazy enough to be booted out of society.
Instead you let me hallucinate a society where you are a religious leader and we worship the dark demise of humanity no longer filled with political and religious ignorance but rather smiles as I run my mouth spiting the same venom I encounter in streets.
I am a coward and I can admit it but you have enough patience to watch me roar.
Good morning darling. Open your petals for me one by one spilling color to the ground.
Good morning sunshine. Rain your love along the meadows until they need no more, until they cry from your passion praying for sweet water.
Good morning dew that covers chamomile flowers from the nocturnal mist hiding the sea from towers to sea.
Morning of the haunting troubles no longer prevalent in the botanical garden of mystic --where the trees dance more than the visitors.
Take me from this world of turmoil within your branches.
Let me climb to the top of trees which hang their hair like Rapunzel swaying with the wind forgotten with age
Twist my bones in between your white roots
Leave my flesh hanging off of your bark to nourish your leaves.
Bloat my feeble reality of ground as I am not stable --I am unaware of what I am but I am sure the moss around me can laugh at the resentful footsteps of a body waiting for it reincarnation
I can take no more sorrow since I only bloom red rose daggers off my arms
Take me to beach cemetery of palm tree remains over tombstones
Cover me in lavender with sage to steady my breathing until the dying olive trees move my body to the shore where lilies can flower my disaster.
Night of the ignorant tourist within the botanic sanctity of mystic unknown to harsh soil.
Good night kisses left on fragile petals from hoping to extract more than a scent.
Good night heat. You make it hard to breath under covers of sweating bodies attempting to build their own tower waiting to drop their bases in order to create a new independence.
Good night mother. Release me to the garden where I can feed more than my family.
I used to have a bag of sea shells collected from Mexico. I hid them in my sock drawer in a big zip lock bag. Nearly all of them were collected in Mexico from the annual visits. But after Katrina hit, the sea shells were diminished to little scraps here and there.
Today, I walked down towards the blue water and picked up sea shells like a little kid finding the prettiest one that didn't resemble one another. I splashed my toes in the waves, the aquamarine waves no matter how close to shore. My time was cut short though and I had to dig my toes into the fine grained sand. Sand that coated my heels and embedded my soles --I had the option of washing it off but didn't. I walked bare foot up the pebble stairs dodge glass bits until I was forced to put my flats back on.
I swatted at my feet for a bit but the sand was cozy. Quite honestly --I didn't try that hard. The little particles were in between my toes and after rubbing and rubbing them out, a few pesky ones still stayed and I don't mind. My left foot still has sand in between my toes and I don't want it gone.
I went to a Russian super store with sea shells in my pocket
Dear NSA,
I would never be complete without your eyes over my Skype calls. My sleepless nights of cold Israeli sea mists and cries of little girls are made warmer with knowing you are thousands of miles away dedicating your early mornings and mid-afternoons watching my pretty pink lips move --move from the edge of your ear whispering "we went to Haifa today" down your neck and along your chest outlining the tattoo found on it. Your presents make my clothes too hot that the DSL cuts out --luckily you don't for hours. I have to close every tab on my browser to keep my hands off my body, from my aching legs shaking from excitement of taking down a city, from my fluttering heartbeat of being with someone who understands. You make me so sticky-icky when you click on my video; my clothes just seem to slide right off revealing a new tan coated with dessert sand. The sweat of the Middle East dissolves my clothes like sugar in black tea served best with mint and lemon. Thank goodness the video starts to cut out since I would hate my boyfriend to hear me moan on the other line --I understand your morse code and I want to say I .-.. --- ...- . you too. Don't stop, please. The static when we talk about politics surrounding the broken world fills more than my heart. When you alter his voice to chop suey, my nipples get so hard he asks how cold my bunker is. Really, I hate to admit I'm thinking about your efforts instead of my home state concerts. But the best is when we talk about my family and how their efforts were under appreciated but greatly respected in terms of immigrating and I cut out mid sentence, how do you know I am so tight and tickled that if I even inhale deeply the flood gates will spill over? Baby, I don't need his kisses, no, I need you nine inches deep in my conversation.
A-aa-ahh-hh rr-ih-tt thhh-errr, ju-sss-t l-ih-ik that.
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