It was about time that I write you a poem

Some days, I pinch myself, to make sure that you’re real.
And even though it hurts every time, I still have a hard time believing it.

You’re the wish I would have never dared to make.
You’re the piece I thought would always be missing.
You’re the words I had never had.

You’re so much brighter than the darkness they’ve left behind.
And I needed that light.

So thank you.

Thank you for saving me when I didn’t want to be saved.
Thank you for listening to me when I didn’t want to talk.
Thank you for loving me when I didn’t want to be loved.

Keeping you warm at night is the greatest honour of my life.

But I don’t think that thank-yous are enough,
so I want to make you a few promises.

I promise you a life, full of smiles, adventures and embraces.
I promise you a home filled with laughter, love and respect.
I promise you a family, strong, united and queer.

I also promise you that I will make you smile, every day.


A taste of freedom

Oh hell you’re beautiful,
and when I say beautiful,
I mean beau-ti-ful.

You’re beautiful like tides and waves
trapped in a glass bottle,
ready to smash it from the inside,
and break free.

And when you will break free,
(because you will)
it’ll start with a small crack,
followed by a hurricane.
A hurricane as big as the ocean,
so sudden, so furious, so adamant,
that it’ll shatter the bottle that once was your prison,
turning it into a small pile of sand.

And you,
after blowing, smashing, virvolting,
you’ll be left of the shore,
on your knees, panting,
the pile of sand on the floor next to you,
and the taste of freedom on your tongue.

As you’ll manage to catch your breath,
the wind will soften,
the ocean will calm down.

When finally the silence will have settled in,
you will rise,
stronger than you’ve ever been,
stronger than the hurricane,
stronger than the ocean.

You will stand on your feet,
all flesh and blood,
heart beating in your chest,

Epiphaneotos, The Essex Writers' Circle

You are my final point, yet to come

You smile,
and in the darkest hours of the night,
the stars start to shine.

The kind of shinning
that even blind people
can see.

The kind of shinning
that reaches the soul,
not the eyes.

So I close mine,
and I feel the warmth,
of your bright smile.

You are my greater love,
you transcend everything,
you transcend everyone.

You are my perfect,
imperfectly perfect,
transcending imperfection.

You are
the void
inside of me.

I am filling up the void,
with words and punctuation,
drawing landscapes of letters.

And with every sentence,
every semi-colon,
I am getting closer to you.

You are my final point, yet to come.




To new beginnings

This morning, I’m sitting at a terrace,
I’v been coming here for three years to write,
The sun warms up my chest, coffee slightly burns my tongue,
That’s how I like to start my day, before something important happens.

In about ten minutes, I will stand up, walk to the Jardin des plantes,
I close my eyes, picture our bench, a shiver runs down my spine,
The statues are waiting for me, it’s time to go,
To say bye to her, until next time.

Months have gone by,
The river burst its banks, twice,
I’ve walked across the green bridge, dozens of times,
And I cannot remember who it was that loved you, that you loved.

Tomorrow, as the sun rises, I will start packing my suitcase,
I will not bring anything reminding me of you or us,
Everything will taste of new beginnings,
adventures and her.

Now, my cup is empty,
My hand is shaking a bit, I need to stand up,
I need to start walking, but I love the smell of coffee,
And fear cripples me, I’m gonna wait a bit longer before going.

One more week, that’s how long I need to wait for her to be back,
I’ll listen to her heart beating, to make sure that she’s real,
She will hold me tight in her soothing arms,
Nothing will scare me anymore.

For almost two years, I didn’t see her,
Or anyone for that matter, including myself,
I was blind, suffocating under your unwholesome web,
But freedom came with a sweet dizziness I cannot get enough of.

Tonight, I’m gonna go to the pub, and almost certainly get drunk,
My friends will raise their glass, they’ll promise to visit,
Madrid isn’t that far, I’ll pretend to believe them,
but I’ll cheer to new beginnings.


You did that to her

She used to run, for absolutely no reason, just because she could.
Now she’s on her knees, unable to move.
You did that to her.

She used to be quiet, until she would burst into laughing, for absolutely no reason, just because she could.
Now she’s just quiet, occasionally bursting into to tears.
You did that to her.

You. Small, little, tiny, you.
You’ve managed to smother the most beautiful sunflower.
Do you know that?

So I’m wondering.
What did you expect from me when you called that night?
Begging for help, for hope, for a hand to pick you up?
Did you think that I’d grab a shovel, and dig a hole for you to burry her in?

Boy, you were so wrong.
I’ve spend the last months going out of my way to make sure she wouldn’t die.
Breathing for her when you would strangle her. Forcing air into her tired lungs.
Fighting every centimeters of you on her skin.

I’m waiting in the background, ready to jump in at the next catastrophe.
I will not force her out of this cage of guilt you’ve built around her, but rest assured, I will be there when she breaks free. And I will be there when she breaks.

And when she won’t be able to stop crying, I’ll encourage her to let the tears run.
I’ll collect these tears, I’ll put them in a big bucket, and I’ll carry this bucket to you.
Now, I’m no expert in torture technics, but I have a few ideas about what to do with this bucket, and all of them involve you gasping for air at some point.

And let me tell you one more thing.
If she and I were sisters, our last name would be resilience.
We never stay on our knees for too long. We’ve survived deaths much scarier than you.
You are just a grain of sand in her eye, and this girl lives by the beach. The next tide will wash you away, and as she will walk amongst the dunes, you will mean nothing.

Epiphaneotos, The Essex Writers' Circle

This one is for my fellow Essex writers

We came together a long time ago,
but I can still smell coffee in the air,
hear your chanting laugh,
feel your burning eyes looking a me.

We were there from the start but many joined us,
performing their poems,
sunset behind their back,
standing in the middle of a stairway.

We wrote those words,
in the intimacy of our bedrooms,
at the mercy of the wind in parks,
by the sea hypnotized by rolling waves.

We gave ourselves to the words,
asking nothing in return,
but one perfect transcending verse,
that would change everything.

We devoted our nights to our muses,
our pencils loving them,
bringing them to life,
or burying them alive.

We fought our darkest demons,
danced with the devil,
but always went to bed alone,
writing not to get lost.

We walked side by side,
not necessarily knowing each other,
but bound by the unspoken promesse,
never to judge or reject.

We butchered poetry more than once,
tried too hard or too little,
so sure about who we were,
so desperate to be someone.

We grew older and life pulled us apart,
but we are the Essex writers circle,
and we have a book motherfuckers.
Thank you Ossídio Gaspar.


Let the catharsis begin

May, 19th 

I haven’t written about you in a while.

You’ve been haunting my dreams.

But I couldn’t find my pen.

May, 22nd 

My pen is escaping, still.

But now my dreams are empty.

And my heart is aching.

May, 24th

I want to find light,
in the darkest inks.

I want their shadow,
printed on my skin.

I want to find you,
in the dark lights.

May, 25th

My dreams were haunted again.

But not by you.

My pen is in my hand again.

The catharsis begins. 


The sinner

Icarus flew too close to the sun,
I have learnt from his mistake,
and made sure never to suffer the same fate.

I have learnt how not to love you,
surrendering to the moon,
to forget your warmth.

I do not dare to look at you unless I’ve confessed my sins,
sins that I confess to you,
you, the cause of my sins.

I, for my heart, am a sinner,
I, for my heart, should burn,
like Icarus. 


The heat

A wave of heat suffocates the city,
an infernal storm keeps us awake.
After the screaming and the euphoria comes the silence.

I thought that this year would be different, that I could do it.
I thought that I would be able to sit in my living room, look at the window,
and think of you, but not feel you.

Oh I was wrong.
And I wonder… Was it you?

This unbearable heat, suffocating the city, making us sweat and pant?
Was it you? This infernal storm, threatening thunder and dazzling lightening, that kept the city awake that night?

I felt you, here, again. Everywhere, all day, all night.
I felt you, where I didn’t want to. In my morning coffee, under the shower, in my sheets.


It’s over

I knew it was over when you stopped feeling like home,
when your lips started to taste bitter,
when the butterflies went quiet.

As I’m leaving the shore, I can see you crying on the beach.
I’m going on a journey, loneliness in my bundle,
lighter than I’ve ever been.

All you can see is a pirate, sailing away with your heart in their hands.
All you can hear is the roar of the waves tearing us apart.
All you can feel is the sharpness of the chill wind.

You’ll survive, I however will probably drown, lured by the sirens.



There are many ways in which a heart can be broken.
Tonight, as I am sobbing in my bed,
I’m listening to my heart breaking, one more time.

Through the screams and tears,
we painfully gave birth to a truth,
a truth I had been bearing for far too long.

And I knew, that the second the words would come out
it would not only break my heart, but yours too.
So I kept the words.

Buried them, deep within myself,
and fought for as long as I could,
not to let them get out.

But today, I lost control,
and with my rage, came the truth.
And with the truth, we ended.
And with our ending, I came back to life, heartless, but breathing.


I like early mornings

I like how the early mornings taste in my lungs. I like the silence of the streets, when the sun, shy, doesn’t know wether it should shine bright, or wait a little bit longer. I like how hesitant the first cars are, as if they were scared to dirty the empty roads. I like how the few people awake look like they’ve never left they dreams. I like how only a few curtains are opened, and how all the shops won’t lift theirs for another few hours. I like how everything is slow and quiet, how the city seems to be waiting for us to get up even though the world never goes to sleep. I like to see my breath whiten the air in front of me as the sun light slowly warms up the back of my neck. I like the sunrise, I like the dew, I like the early singing birds and the smell of fresh croissants. I like that jogger chasing God knows what by the river, and that old lady walking her dog before the pavement gets too busy. I like that little boy still sleeping while his dad takes him to the nursery, I like that woman making her way to the rumbling factory. I like those few brave souls, awake, alive before everyone else. I want to be one of them. I’ve been asleep for too long.


You, always

How could any man or woman,
dare to sully the beauty of your smile?

How could anyone,
dare to look at you in the eyes,
giving themselves to you,
taking you whole,
and yet touch another?

You are a queen, and your place is on a throne,
above the clouds, far away from the ugliness of our kind.
You are no perfection, but you rule,
proud, keeping your head up,
no matter the affront.

How could any man or woman,
dare to spill your tears,
salty diamonds,
running down the valley of your cheeks?


Poem, from my drunk self, to my sober self

Tonight, I really wanted to write you the most beautiful poem.
I wanted to tell you how the stars only shine for you
and how the ocean went quite in your absence.

But instead, I looked at the darkness around me,
waiting for some inspiration.
And nothing came.

I stare at this emptiness within myself. Confused.

How is it, that I’m feeling so much, and yet nothing.
How is it, that my love for you is burning brighter than ever, and yet nothing.
How is it, that the thought of your lips against mine leaves me breathless, and yet nothing.

Tonight, I’m drunk, and I want to be a poet.
I want to find the words to tell the world how vibrant the moon is tonight,
and how empty my bed feels without you.
I want to write a poem that will speak to all the empty souls missing their other half tonight. But nothing.

No beautiful metaphor, no smart comparison, no cheeky litotes.
Just meaningful silence. Heavy silence, painful silence.

Tonight, I am the silent poet.
Missing my other half.
Staring at the moon, at the darkness.
Prisoner of the night, counting the stars.

I surrender to the obscurity,
waiting for the first lights to set me free,
to bring me closer to you, to us.
To your lips.

Tonight, I wanted to write you a poem.
I wanted to tell you about how the stars only shine for you,
and about how the ocean went quite in your absence.

But instead, I lost myself amongst my words,
stumbled around the corners of this piece of writing,
hoping that my sober self will fix this mess.
Or not. I shall see tomorrow morning.