Archive for August 2015

Never Been To

Sunday, August 30, 2015 Comments Off

The entire book collections in all libraries in the world wouldn't be able to contain all the poetries that I have written for constantly finding––and failingly be with––an almost or a possibility. Almost every blood in my vein could be translated to a series of novels in which the main character is still decidedly without any romantic attachment, not because the lack of willingness in her part, but mostly because life has a way of interfering in something that seems like meant to be.

Every roll of films wouldn't be able to capture the scenarios that I have built in my mind the minute I found a romantic potential in certain someone. Every thrum of my heart constantly reminds me of its neighbour, the void in my chest, that was birthed from life's inability to translate my scenario into reality. In my mind, my lips have tasted the sweet life of requited love, my eyes have witnessed true love, my ears have heard the declaration of domesticity, my nose has woken up to the smell of homemade crepes and to the lingering scent of masculine shampoo on the pillow, and my body has learned that it won't ever get cold or lonely ever again.
Alas, the only sentence that I can formulate right now is, "Of all the places that I have never been to, it's your arms that I want to visit the most."

Skincrave

Monday, August 24, 2015 Comments Off

It is 1:21 AM and I am having skincrave.

I have always felt that way, I suppose. There is this intimacy that I hunger for that can only be satisfied by being physically intertwined with someone else. Some people often mistake this need of mine for sexual relations. Though I cannot deny that having sexual interaction with someone would mean that it would be easier to get that skin to skin contact, satisfying my skincrave requires something more than just interacting sexually with someone without any shared intimacy that has been established before. Romance does not always have to come into the equation, but there should always something intimate shared between the person and I, something sacred that was borne out of mutual respect and understanding.

Perhaps the reason behind this is simply to remind me that I am not alone, even though it has been visibly proven, but oftentimes I need a gentler, more active reminder that this quiet solitude is shared by the society as a whole; sharing your atoms to be comfortably nested in their being as a way to lessen the feeling of incomprehensible loneliness and possibly the feeling of being unimportant.

This torturous endeavour of mine might never be met for it is getting more impossible to find another human being to share my relentless need in sharing the experience of having another's presence right beside yours. But let's just pretend. It is almost two in the morning and I have nothing more important to do.

Let's just pretend that I have one person in my life that I can satisfy my skincrave. Let's just pretend the person is male, relatively older than me, taller than me, larger than me, with thick lashes that framed smouldering eyes and luscious lips. Let's just pretend that we have known each other for awhile, that we have collected enough stories of each other to consider that the intimacy of satisfying skincrave is somehow an act usually shared by people with romantic inclination towards each other, but we currently do not have it. Or maybe we do. Let's just pretend that we have managed the technicality of our relationship, whether it is strictly platonic or the opposite, and we also have decided that sharing skincrave would not affect, or the opposite, our relationship. Let's just pretend that we have resolved that this act is nothing sexual, that this act only involves hours of snuggling under his woollen black afghan, on his couch while watching something––and eventually sleeping. Let's just pretend that he enjoys the feeling of my hands running on his thick dark hair and on his neck. Let's just pretend that I enjoy having him rub my back and tangle his fingers on my mane. Let's just pretend that we acknowledge each other pain and suffering by temporarily unburdening the feeling of total and complete loss, due to the fact that our heart and head are isolated from the world, through physical touch.


Let's just pretend.

[Natasha Vavere]

My Favourite

Wednesday, August 5, 2015 Comments Off

"You are my favourite collection of heartbreaks." I whispered, running my finger slowly on his chest.
"I am forever grateful for the clenching pain on your chest; for all the unhappiness that you have felt over the course of your adulthood, for all the sorrow you had to live with when you were just a mere son of someone, and for all the faults you didn't do. Because they all had led me to you."

A finger touched my chin, causing me to look up from my favourite space––the crook of his neck. "Tell me truly, is that a romanticisation version of me? I am guided by my past, a houseful of haunted halls, hidden chambers, unknown horrors, broken remnants of internal wars, dark heated rage, and cold empty basement. Are you willing to venture? To deal with these dark creatures that I, myself, don't have any idea how to handle? To completely and permanently get rid of them?"

It was very intense;
what he said,
the look in his eyes,
what I felt for him and
the feel of our physical being
together, intertwined, unbroken by reality.

I put a kiss on his lips, briefly. There was this inability that kept me from breaking a magical moment that was blunt, forward honesty in which everything was laid bare, unhindered, and, more importantly, raw.

"Maybe I don't need to get rid of it all," I suggested, "I am already living with you, alongside you, and by your side. Who says that I can't live inside you; inside your inalterably chaotic brain and frequently used heart? I have overflowing love inside of me, that I need some large space––a gigantic container, even––to fill it. Your house has all the space, crooks, and nooks that I possibly need.
The question is, will you let me in? Or are you afraid of not being in the dark?"

As I posed that question, I could tell, because of his raw truths, that there was a possibility where the master key was already in my hand.
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