Ink & Wine Bottles

Rushed showers-                    You’ve still got long hair so it takes us twice as long. We never learn. Throwing on clothes-                    I hope you still wear those shirts in ten years time. Cutting off the crusts of sandwiches for a six year old with your eyes- She’ll ask for jam, and I’ll want to say no, but I could never deny that shade of green. You making toast while I brew the tea-                    Promite. Peppermint. Toothpaste kisses- You’re still as dreamy as you were at seventeen. Even with your pink toothbrush hanging out your mouth. Goodbyes- You’ll still kiss my mouth and call me ‘honey babe’ and I know that this is Tuesday but it feels like Christmas.

Jenga. My move. I pull out a sturdy looking piece of wood. The whole structure falls. With a look across the table then a quick glance at me, you say ‘Kali’. The Hindu Goddess of Destruction. Saturday night. Your move. You hold my hand as I see my first shooting star. My whole structure falls.

On Tuesday afternoons I have a poetry class. We sit in a circle and the teacher teaches us about a form of poetry. Sometimes it's familiar, sometimes it's something only one of us has heard of. As soon as we understand - it's over to us. We write, then we speak. For someone who has had a long-term, committed, love-fueled relationship with poetry - and more recently spoken word - I have loved learning more about this art form.  With this - this is my promise (that I'll try my very best to keep) to release a poem each week. Maybe a Wednesday? A Thursday? A mid-week piece of my heart. Last week we had our poetry presentations. Five minutes worth of speaking our own poems. The equivalent of a 'Best Of' compilation mix. For someone in a course that requires answering questions and speak regularly to people during class, there's something about standing up in front of my peers (and in this case, pouring my heart out) that still gets to me. ...

My dear, dear friend and muse and inspiration came to me a little while ago with a request. He told me to write something and we were going to film it. With no more guidelines than that, I wrote about something I'd been thinking about for a week or so. The differences of how my life may turn out depending on who I dated, lived with, shared my life with, and how they would bring out different sides of me. Those differences were huge. A redheaded artist whose personality was as wild as her hair. A sweet, kind, Earth-loving boy who always longed for more. A Brazilian yogi. The man behind the camera. All these lives would be so sweet. I've Fallen In Love from Alfonso Coronel on Vimeo .

What we could’ve been: Mugs of tea on the back porch that warm our fingertips as our still-sleepy eyes meet through the steam. Food shopping on Tuesday afternoons. Talking about your latest idea to put on a canvas in aisle five while you reach for the flour. What are we having for dinner? Fingers intertwined in art exhibitions. Chrysanthemums on doorsteps. Riding bicycles barefoot down side streets. Arms littered with each other’s sketches and words. Inked. This is permanent. Reading books to nephews after a family dinner. No grey-coloured soup – you know the type. We’ll fall asleep on my sister’s couch. Last minute tickets to a gig tonight. Put on your best shirt, we’re going out. My shout. People watching. Cloud watching. Stargazing – though you’re the brightest one in my eyes. Puddle-jumping. Mixtape-making. You and six strings, me on the horn. Developed film of moments on Sundays when we call in sick. Us. We could’ve been us. Wha...