Ovi -
we cover every issue
newsletterNewsletter
subscribeSubscribe
contactContact
searchSearch
worldwide creative inspiration  
Ovi Bookshop - Free Ebook
Tony Zuvela - Cartoons, Illustrations
Ovi Language
Murray Hunter: Essential Oils: Art, Agriculture, Science, Industry and Entrepreneurship
The Breast Cancer Site
Tony Zuvela - Cartoons, Illustrations
International Red Cross and Red Crescent Movement
 
BBC News :   - 
iBite :   - 
GermanGreekEnglishSpanishFinnishFrenchItalianPortugueseSwedish
Over the tree whispers turn into screams Over the tree whispers turn into screams
by Abigail George
2019-12-23 09:42:21
Print - Comment - Send to a Friend - More from this Author
DeliciousRedditFacebookDigg! StumbleUpon

(for my mother, father, sister, and brother)

       I haven’t fallen in love in eight
hours. I wish I could fly out of this
room to any place that I could call home
treewis01_400and sanctuary away from this cold
winter’s dream, thinking about what
you did not say out of the blue, and I think of
the Parisian-rooftops of Rilke, my sister’s
Prague, Lulu, and I feel lonely, and
sad all of the time, and sometimes, just
sometimes life feels like death, and
death feels like life, like a tsunami,
like a tidal wave amongst all of the cars,
the subways, the cousins who don’t
remember my birthday, and you’re
not here. You’re never here. And I
think I’m starting to realise that you
don’t love me, you never loved me.
All this time my sub-conscious was
in love with difficult men, men set
in their own habits, and ways, older,
wiser, sexier, more confident, more
vulnerable. You brought joy into my life,
you were perfection, and quality, instead
of quantitative analysis. I think of
you getting older, surrounded by your
children, the children I could never
give you. I would have loved you for a
minor eternity, a major lifeline. Tell
me what you want me to do now.
You want me to forget you. I want you
to forgive me for loving you, when
another woman has given you the daughter
I never could have. I want to eat meat
now, after that bowls of fire and I’m
fragile now during the day, but especially the
night. I can’t sleep, my love. You’re
funny. You’re a funny guy, thinking
about all the things you said. I ran
away from you, afraid to love you, afraid of everything,
I guess you married the most suitable
woman in the world. The loveliest, not
the gypsy, not the most dangerous woman
in the world, not the flame-thrower, not
the girl who falls in love with rock stars,
and film stars, and dead poets, and who
worships suicide-related deaths by female
poets. Yes, I hear voices. Yes, I see
hallucinations. Yes, I bleed like an animal
for you, but in the middle of the night
I think of you, your British accent, and
how I loved you with my whole heart,
my entire being, and you chose to fall in
love with a moment, a mood, a cause, an
issue of temporary faith. You did not
want this dreamer to love you back. And I wonder
if you’re happy, because I’m not coping.


   
Print - Comment - Send to a Friend - More from this Author

Comments(0)
Get it off your chest
Name:
Comment:
 (comments policy)

© Copyright CHAMELEON PROJECT Tmi 2005-2008  -  Sitemap  -  Add to favourites  -  Link to Ovi
Privacy Policy  -  Contact  -  RSS Feeds  -  Search  -  Submissions  -  Subscribe  -  About Ovi