Yeux

 

image_514_resizedYves Klein, “Untitled Fire-Color Painting” c. 1962

Yves Klein blue eyes curiously gaze at me from across the room.
I perceive innocence and naiveté: inexperienced youth.
I want you but I am afraid to submerge in the deep unknown that lies beneath those azure pools of your soul. There is a void within you.
Your eyes yearn for affection, but is it me that you’re looking for?
 
Your scarlet lips are a symptom of a fever that rises as I approach you.
I exhale, and every breath I take fans the flame of desire that burns inside you.
How I would love to quench the spark you have ignited in me, but it is too late.
The brief second that we kissed has set my body ablaze. 

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Scars

Each line is now the actual experience with its own innate history. It does not illustrate—it is the sensation of its own realization.
—Cy Twombly

Screen Shot 2016-04-26 at 5.52.08 PMCy Twombly, Untitled (Bacchus) 2008

I am sometimes embarrassed by the scars on my body, but similar to the lines that Twombly painted, they have an innate history that is not evident to the viewer. The scars are the remnants of the experience, each with a singular story that has shaped who I am today.

What I did to forget about you:

What I did to forget about you:

I cut my hair; I dyed it too.
I changed my address. 
I changed my look.
I forgot to eat. 
I ate too much. 
I stayed home. 
I went out.
I reunited with old friends and made new ones along the way.
I avoided the places we used to go.
I became a regular at certain stores.
 
For the first week, I broke down every night.
I sweat from and inexplicable fever in my sleep. 
I craved you when I was with someone new.
I got drunk.
I got very drunk.
I tried to drown my sorrows but those bastards learned how to swim.
I washed my skin and I scrubbed hard.
I tried to get rid of the smell of your body on mine until my skin turned red and hot and tender to the touch.
I cried. I wept. I still do.
 
I drank some more and my tears were my chasers. 
I kissed strangers, lots of them, but all I could taste was you. 
I ran away, to the gym, back home, and back to my apartment.
I ran from my problems but they always beat me home.
I tried to replace the emotional pain with a physical one.
Muscle soreness, self inflicted to momentarily forget, yet it still reminded me of you: of the time you hit me, and the time I hit you.
I slept. I went days without sleeping. I was drinking my pain away. Staying up late with champagne supernovas to celebrate one day without thinking about you.
Clouds of white, snow and smoke enshrouded me and I felt protected. But they dissipated and I saw you out, with someone else, and I had to start again and forget the progress I had made.
I cried alone and I cried with friends.
I promised myself: “This time around I will forget…about you, about us, about the person I was.”
I danced until my body ached, so that I could get home and sleep, too exhausted to think of anything before I went to bed.
I met someone, I let them go. I loved you, but I loved myself more.
 
I lost you, but I found myself. I learned to love myself.
I cut my hair. I changed address. 
I danced and I drank but this time to celebrate.
I cried some more, but not for you this time around.
I cried for life, for youth, and for joy.
I cried for the happiness I missed out on while waiting for you, to come home, to come back into my life.
I found joy and I found life.
Most importantly, I found myself when I forgot about you.