“I love poetry!” she used to say to me, all the time. Every
single day of the week, every time I stumbled upon her, she would churn
out beautiful lines like these. Then, with the usual sullen look in her
face, she would correct herself involuntarily; “I love your poetry,
you know! Not just poetry in general!” she gave a kiss at my cheek and
left. And behind her figure, ruins, ruins, ruins. I was inexhaustibly in
love with her. The very shadow that emerged from her well-formed body,
her moves, the way her fingers caressed the ground and the sound her
lips made when she touched my cheek, everything pertaining to her was
just unrivaled. She was a very, very powerful wind, a vento (oh,
how she used to retrieve all her knowledge of Italian vocabulary, she
tried to pronounce words she has not pronounced in ages! I never had the
courage or the attitude to tell her how funnily her lips moved when she
tried to pronounce Italian words), a force that even if you
painstakingly attempted to resist it, it swarmed over you, your
existence, your essence, your longings and ambitions, and managed to
conquer you, and reduce you to mindless, blindfolded obedience. Yet, you
still lusted over becoming a part of her collection of tormented,
fatigued hearts. I could give up everything had she implored me to. I
could figure out multiple, imaginative ways to kill myself had she
wanted to make a piece of art out of my death.
One day, she walked up to me and told me how extraordinarily exquisite my poetry was. I was enthralled once again by her choice of words. She carefully picked the words that would make me beg on my knees for a reassurance of my existence in her universe. She told me every single day how much she wanted to have poems written about her, by my hand. Oh, how little she knew! I had scribbled an insurmountable number of stanzas dedicated to her. I never had the nerve to show her how my artsy self felt about her.
“I want poetry about me!” she yelled with a joyful look in her face. People thought her drunk, but she was more sober than most. This elation was natural to her. She did not have to add alcohol to her words. She was an exuberant, high-spirited, funny person by nature. This is the main reason why I adored her. Her eyes had a different sort of gleam every time you gazed into them. They always reflected a different kind of abyss. And this abyss penetrated you.
“I will write poetry about you all over town” I said, intoxicated with amore. She looked at me for a moment and laughed from the bottom of her heart. “No, you won’t!” She offered her regular kiss at my cheek and abandoned the debris of my heart longing for another one. Her disbelief motivated me all the more. I wanted to prove to her what I could do, what I was capable of.
I wrote poetry, lines, drawings, faces and balloon hearts looking for their owners in the streets. On public, private properties, on everything that could be used as a surface for art. Elaborately, carefully, diligently, I scribbled lines for her. Not only my lines, no. There so many immense poets before me that illustrated female beauty in more imaginative and erotic ways. My work was insufficient to describe spectacular miracles of nature. Every single corner of this gray, industrial town was painted with love, with immense, immobilizing, laborious love. The kind of love that blooms even in the gloomiest of areas all around the globe and creates a depressing contrast with all the sadness and the misery emanating from these corners of the world. This was my love.
“I will write poetry about you all over town” I said. But what I truly wanted to say was, “I will write poetry about you, everywhere. I will write poetry on your arms. I will write poetry in the walls of the most squalid building you have ever observed. I will write poetry on every cement surface of this town, and let a flower hesitatingly bloom from the spot on which my words silently lie. And this flower will exist only for you…for your blissful smile.”
One day, she walked up to me and told me how extraordinarily exquisite my poetry was. I was enthralled once again by her choice of words. She carefully picked the words that would make me beg on my knees for a reassurance of my existence in her universe. She told me every single day how much she wanted to have poems written about her, by my hand. Oh, how little she knew! I had scribbled an insurmountable number of stanzas dedicated to her. I never had the nerve to show her how my artsy self felt about her.
“I want poetry about me!” she yelled with a joyful look in her face. People thought her drunk, but she was more sober than most. This elation was natural to her. She did not have to add alcohol to her words. She was an exuberant, high-spirited, funny person by nature. This is the main reason why I adored her. Her eyes had a different sort of gleam every time you gazed into them. They always reflected a different kind of abyss. And this abyss penetrated you.
“I will write poetry about you all over town” I said, intoxicated with amore. She looked at me for a moment and laughed from the bottom of her heart. “No, you won’t!” She offered her regular kiss at my cheek and abandoned the debris of my heart longing for another one. Her disbelief motivated me all the more. I wanted to prove to her what I could do, what I was capable of.
I wrote poetry, lines, drawings, faces and balloon hearts looking for their owners in the streets. On public, private properties, on everything that could be used as a surface for art. Elaborately, carefully, diligently, I scribbled lines for her. Not only my lines, no. There so many immense poets before me that illustrated female beauty in more imaginative and erotic ways. My work was insufficient to describe spectacular miracles of nature. Every single corner of this gray, industrial town was painted with love, with immense, immobilizing, laborious love. The kind of love that blooms even in the gloomiest of areas all around the globe and creates a depressing contrast with all the sadness and the misery emanating from these corners of the world. This was my love.
“I will write poetry about you all over town” I said. But what I truly wanted to say was, “I will write poetry about you, everywhere. I will write poetry on your arms. I will write poetry in the walls of the most squalid building you have ever observed. I will write poetry on every cement surface of this town, and let a flower hesitatingly bloom from the spot on which my words silently lie. And this flower will exist only for you…for your blissful smile.”
