Week 44

My eyes turn blood red
After I shower.
When I was young,
My mother used to say
It was because my dad was a drunk.

In the days and years that passed by
That phrase always stuck with me,
The sins of my father were my sins as well
My own cross to carry.
Can you really blame someone for being born?


What if my dad was a sailor
And the red of my eyes mimicked his
In the dark starry nights
Spent on ocean water
Swimming above whales
And leviathans,
And a whole universe below.

But he wasn't a sailor
He drank and gambled
When he was younger
Creating scars where none should have existed
And now I bear his mark
Every time I close my eyes underwater.

Week 43

The bed was wet
When we laid down on it
Concave and a mix of colours.
Your skin was warm
And tasted like salt and earth,
I had missed it the few days I was away.

It was early summer
And frost still filled the trees
And in our cocoon,
I was warm and alive
Out of it, I ran a little too cold
And a little too hot.

I still see your eyes
And your nose
And the way your lips part
When you lean in to kiss me.

Every day I ask if you still love me,
Maybe I won't today.
Maybe I'll trust to see it in the way
You grasp my fingers
And kiss my hips,
in the way you talk about our children,
the ones still unborn.
I'll nestle into this cocoon,
place my lips along your neck
and let the salt and earth coat them.

Week 42

Everyone who understood me
On the deepest level
Turned out to be unstable matter.

It's no wonder that I write
Instead of speak directly to you,
You and your brilliant eyes,
I want you to stay
Stay here with me.

Even my words
I am afraid if you see them
The way that they are
When they are naked,
I am afraid that you won't understand
And I want so badly for you to understand
And believe.

For now,
We are happy
And I hope it to stay that way
So I keep these words hidden
And when you discover them one day
Please do not laugh them away.

Week 41

Mountains are like a dream
when I visit the city
of Calgary.

They surround the city
beautifully breathtaking
but far away,
like the way you loom
over my soul
while I allow for people to pass through.
They stop by
visiting for a while at night
to rest their tired soles
while in the day,
they pass on
to brighter and better things
the mountains in the distance.

So here I remain
a pitstop
a bed and breakfast
a little retreat
on the way to something more.