Matchbox Maladies

Catastrophic uncertainty of the self.

Month: November, 2012

by Sine Qua Non

I sit here and all I could think of is writing about you and me in metaphors and discreet bullshit, intended whimsical arrows to strike you in the heart, a sticky note of me too late for your memory. I will not surrender to the hour, will not give in to my brain telling my heart forget it, because I’ve been trying too hard and have lost too many times, lost too much. I am your silly lover, hopeless devotee, condemned, wounded, died and lived again. The resurrection is not my doing. I want to stay dead, I want to cross to the other side but your light keeps me lost in a limbo of wait. I want to stop and go on at the same time. You cannot save me and I cannot save myself. It is you who have been saved from danger. And you may not even know it. The hero is gone, her cape blocks out the sun and she is human again. There is no superpower, there is no flight, only an identity she has to hide. There is no need to worry, the world is as it should be for you. The wounds have been sustained. It will all heal.

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tu me manques

by Sine Qua Non

I cannot sleep because i miss you. I was cleaning up my message folders and i stumbled upon our old threads. The silly banter of meaningful nonsense, every reply that ensured another response, the beginnings of bite-sized comforts, the hashtags of topics that set trends only between you and me, the carefully chosen symbols put together to represent what we felt, the calculated confessions and reckless revelations, the songs that spoke what we couldn’t write in sentences, the extended longings, pains evaded and anticipated, the hours that flew past us, the hours we embraced, your hand upon my cheek, your stare cutting through my soul tearing down my walls, your fingers tracing lines on my thighs, your breath on my cheek, your delightful snore, the early morning kisses you plant on my cheek while half-awake, your morning kisses that wake me, our morning kisses that kept us both awake, the short hours and extended minutes, the disregard for time, those moments we said we’d stop but didn’t, those moments you stayed with me, briefly lent me the fantasy that you were mine. So many songs I want to sing to you, so many words waiting to be written into poems of what we are, what we have, what we’re not, what we could be. I cannot sleep because I am thinking of you. I cannot sleep because you are not with me.