Untitled – 2016

I felt like writing to you,

but deafened the urge.

So now I sit in loneliness

awaiting your call.

 

I can’t remember your voice,

but you must’ve sound like

an angel,

because the haloesque vision of you

can’t seem to dim.

 

You’re the drug I want to kick off

on.

The memory in that drunken song.

You’re my locked up elephant

I dare never to speak off.

 

You’re the broken windshield

that doesn’t annoy me anymore.

The dangers are just around the corner,

I’m living life on a western edge.

 

A first world problem:

I would put myself on a diet for you,

but you wouldn’t even notice

in those jeans.

So there you leave.

Too early for breakfast,

too late to call it a night.

You look even better with a hangover.

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It was a long day

It was a long day. A day of running around and I’m finally home, exhausted. I let myself fall onto bed, close my eyes. I breathe in, hold the breath for a moment and breathe out. All is well, I smile; it was a good day. You haven’t been on my mind at all, but there you are again, just in time for dinner. It’s a memory: We’re sat next to each other in the sunshine and you’re on the phone. Even though you’re next to me, I’m lonely; the conversation is taking too long. You’re next to me, but so far away. Our eyes lock, you smile apologetic in your attempt to finish the conversation and return to me. The memory fades out, you never returned, I won’t let the memory finish – it’s a beautiful, terrible, history. I stare up to the ceiling: it’s white, blank, just like my mind. Now it really is time for dinner, so I get up and leave you behind.

Fog

The clouds were covering up the city; I could only see a few meters before the view was caught up in a white cold pillow. It’s a funny thing: fog. It takes away sight, but at the same time makes the world appear lighter. Nighttime was suddenly mixed with the brightness of tiny water droplets, suspended in the atmosphere, reflecting the streetlights. It’s even a better play on word in Dutch: mist, the same word for missing. Just how I was missing you, as I navigated my way back home through the unidentifiable landscape. You are fogging up my mind and somehow making it appear brighter than it effectively is. I was shivering, I was smiling, I was lost in my own city; yet, I didn’t feel lost at all. You made me delusional and I translate this illusion to magic. I don’t want to give up this shimmer of hope. For now, let my world appear a little brighter before you blow my house of cards down – and the fog dissipates.

I miss you

I miss you: my best friend. I miss your warmth, and your everlasting endurance of cold-feet-in-bed. I miss our car ‘singing’, late at night as we drove back home. I miss the funny faces you can pull, favourably on random sent pictures during the day. I miss your scent, your touch. I miss you dancing to music I don’t particularly enjoy at 7:30 in the morning. I miss your voice, with its tired sound, as you’re about to fall asleep. I miss your laugh, your smile, your eyes. I miss your kisses, whose memory of has slowly been fading. I miss you. Even if you don’t miss me at all.

One more goodbye

Another goodbye, and another one. In an attempt to stabilise myself I drank a dead-sea-amount of wine in the hope it’d kill all emotions. Unfortunately it only left me dazed, confused, and swept off my feet – but not the good kind. More the hugging the toilet kind.

So I found myself in a state of self pity on the bathroom floor, with still the faint hope to hear you whisper it would be alright. But I was there and you are so far away. No amount of screaming would make you listen to me. Long distance phone calls are still long distance – and most of the time done in drunken spirits.

I peeled myself off the floor when I felt brave enough to shed my skin, and concur the massive hangover alone. Right in that moment I decide: I will ride my bike today, because I’m so Dutch, and all you are is so far away.

Butterflies

“When we define the Photograph as a motionless image, this does not mean only that the figures it represents do not move; it means that they do not emerge, do not leave: they are anesthetized and fastened down, like butterflies.”

– Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography

A quote I slowly repeat to myself as a mantra, as I flick through old pictures, and dream of a future not yet on print.