On the Surface of a Perforated Sphere

Over a shot of your 252 and a glass of plain lemon water of mine we exchanged our notion that evening. Casually and unpretentiously. But still, the kind of conversation that would intrude my mind for weeks or possibly more, partly because: 1. Your queer accent had always been my strange sort of muse; 2. Your judgment towards unhappy facts had even been growing more liberally since the last time we had such discussion—despite possible cause of simply different shots you had; and 3. Your wavy edges of hair draping behind your trilby hat fit you like never before.

The other part was just because, it’s you and me again. Trying to befit our fortune and deal with the infelicitous consequences. Repeating the same cycle of melancholia, followed with acceptance, and then hunger for coming back.

Have we never learned anything?

Oh, darling, we have. We always have. But we have always decided to also forget the lesson that we’re the sorts of variables that could never coexist altogether in any equation, simply because we believe in possible new approaches to overcome that biggest issue of our affinity.

Whether it’s actually realistic or not.

Oceans away from where we were, a soul that was supposed to be half of me was undergoing their life on a casual daily basis, being clueless about what I was suffering, not even having time to care, not even asking.

A quick stroll away from where we were, a soul that had recently been responsible for your constant source of fun—fulfilling part of you I could never afford—was waiting for you to knock on their bedroom door; being clueless about what you were suffering, not even having time to care, not even asking.

And there we were, getting stuck in the same final question as always. And our approach towards it would be you unconsciously staring at my face, which I reply with the exact same of motion; and for seconds we’ll begin to notice again how the freckles in our eyes are mirror images if only we could stand close enough to also notice that they’re perfectly aligned.

And that stops only when one of us giggles, and looks away, and laughs at our constant trait of being folly.

Because our skins don’t even know each other. Unlike yours and hers. Or much fewer parts of mine and his. Our different set of boundaries defines it all.

And you appreciate that, and I appreciate you for appreciating that.

But hey, our eyes.

The only entities that communicate the most when our voices no longer do.

“So what are we going to do now?”

“I don’t honestly know.”

“We never did, do we?”

“We always did. We chose to ignore all the time.”

“Then?”

The guy in the live band sang Transatlanticism in the way we never heard of before, and just like that, we knew the only answer for our ponder rightaway.

To be close, no matter what we are, no matter what we can or cannot do,

or become.

I need you so much closer.

Stadiums Shrines

In a world where the fine line between white and black is sometimes undecipherable, there gets to be some time when everything becomes just clear and readable—in absence of the gray or blurred intervals. Spaces between your eyelids and that couple of brownish circles. Silvery dust flowing away from my face every time I breathe. Sheets of papers with your terrible handwriting on them.

Among things that are white, those are the ones I enjoy spending time to look at the most. Where truth be found, and things are absolute, with no transitions. Eyes that don’t hide lies, scattered dots showing where the atmosphere flows, and writings of non-fiction that are disguised in novels or fairy tales. Unlike snows that melt, the walls between our rooms that crack, or the back side of those photographs of your face which eventually turn to yellow.

Somewhere along the fine line, I can see the other side where things are all the contrary. Black, and unlit. Like the total eclipse of your heart before this story comes to life. Or the conservative mind of mine before our lives intersect.

In other word, the past before us.


 

Oblivion

Ivar,

if love at first sight truly exists, mine would be the southern lights. One fine night in Ålesund, 1996, I caught my stepfather Dainin Kanav fall asleep to a video he played on repeat, which was recorded back then when he was journeying solo to the Falkland Islands. It was all magenta, the colour of my childhood princess, Sonja the baby doll. Broad horizons, infinite vacancy, wintry tarn, coalesced with that dancing Titania of nature’s. No other sound but fleeting nothingness clasping black pinewoods. I, then, sat next to the sleeping Kanav watching fifty-four seconds of what turned out to be my lifetime dream, learning for the first time that solitude was bliss.


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Poethood

Fireflies between your fingers, flaring, twisting twilight—I am caught in moonlust; eerie lull over my collar, I’m all conquered by the absence of the day.

My syllables are such disarray, that I translate into songs to preserve the thought of you—that sickens me last night, tonight, and every night after. I spell your name backwards. There’s teardrop from below. My Sun descends eastward.

Dear Carrie, said Lowell,

There was a history before us, with tales never before told, pieces never before seen. We’d senesce and eventually perish, with our ideas be petrified, and our preexistence be either forgotten or unfortunately celebrated. But together—you and I—we’d perpetually coexist.

Dear Lowell, Carrie said,

Here I am, unbounded and infinite. Untangled and invincible.

Here I enliven,

digesting diction, breathing brainchild, nurturing notions.

To write or to writhe.


 

Tryst

I am not a man of the present. I am recurrently ripped into part of me that clinged to the lingering past and a bit of me that agonizes the imminent future; particularly when I am undergoing seconds consisting of our tryst. At times we consume together, half of my emotions possess the joy of being surrounded by your existence, and the other half survives the unforeseen blues of fearing that this may not last long as I would like. I am, once again, not a man of the present.Certain piece of me wants to remain in the existing contentment, but the other opposes it with thoughts traversing time and phases I never want to befriend.

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Longship Noir

Slices of cold toast next to pairs of patterned socks, stranded in the corner of the ruffled futon. Few creased notes on the wall prompting how many weeks remained before departure. Windows opened behind untied draperies conveying waft from elsewhere. The loose end of a daybook with picturesque illustrations and few lines of children’s storybook. Empty cartons of almond milk, outmoded jumper with particular men’s odor, colourful inks from leaking pens, Dutch dictionary’s pages found in shreds, bleached trousers hung above fridge; everything was as misplaced as the summer downpour that is occurring outside. Cellphone thrown at the edge of her hammock, suddenly vibrates.

“Hello, there.”

And she just knows rainbow would betide even after cloudburst.


 

Predawn

Half of the daytime I own your ease. Transient minute of caressing your coiffure; a brief moment of fingertips gently crossing the skins; and a momentary glance of your head falling to my shoulder; how’s it feel to dwell in constancy of not to leave anywhere and just settle down for a moment, to let the passing seconds fleet around you? I might have just asked a question you would never be able to resolve.

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Heart & Soul

At the elegiac words of your ode, even ache could be somewhat flawless. Your je ne sais quoi turns twinge into pleasure in disguise, like fading colours of daybreak in the border of the city and the sky. As fine as white and washed-out ivory, but less romantic than the contrast of urban lights and evening horizon. You define pain as if it is just a peach rosebud. A patisserie that is closed every Saturday. A loverboy two thousand miles away promising to be back home.They would eventually grow some happiness just yet, you believe.

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