Sip my tea and sit and dream

I want to watch the moon rise over a mountaintop while I watch the glow of a fire grow dim. Listening to crickets will be music and pressing my toes into the dirt, a massage.
I want to feel steady breaths on my back while my eyelids surrender to rest. I’ll move in subconsciousness and feel a leg or a foot. I’ll press the sole of my foot against it and slow my heartbeat.
I’ll never see police lights again, or hear the wail of an ambulance.
I’ll let my hair grow long into braids that rest atop my head like a crown. I’ll forget the days my lips feigned red. Forget that I cared my feet were calloused or my bones grew crooked. I’ll forget the smell of cologne, gladly.
I’ll sit on a porch and watch the sky with a smile so genuine I won’t realize it adorns my lips.
Music will play to an empty room, and fill it with tales of woe, rising and everything that falls in between.
I’ll think of the story of the axe, cutting through a tree, one made from the other.

"They sprout out of the cement,
growing where they shouldn’t.
Rising up patiently
with exemplary will and dignity.
Without lineage,
wild, unclassifiable by botanists.
A strange, rampant,
absurd beauty.
They adorn the greyest of corners,
don’t own anything
and nothing can stop them.
A metaphor for uncontrollable life
that paradoxically forces me
to face my weakness."

— Sidewalls

A time in a life

It wasn’t ever very natural. Over the time spent apart they always had to relearn how to act. Relearn how to kiss each other. They didn’t mind. She waited for him, to hear the thick truck engine shut off and the boots on the porch. The door would open and she would immediately engulf him. He smelled like tilled dirt and salt. His Carhart pants would be stiff from weeks of walking. They had there, overwhelmed with how much they’d missed each other and how long ago that feeling seemed, though only moments had passed. He would give her the letters he wrote her that he cut from the blank pages of his books and she read and re-read them while he washed the salty smell away. Then they would roll about for hours, overjoyed to no longer be alone, and sleep. Above all, and even in the end and after the end all they cared to do was sleep.

The sky turned black

I felt used to the shouting. I have grown accustomed to drowning it out and experiencing silence inside. The vibrations of the music, the talking, the dancing in the street reminded me of something simple and sweet, but it reminded him of something sinister and convoluted.
We talked about it. We laughed.
I listen to frogs “gruuuup” all night long. They lull me and I tip my whiskey in appreciation.
Some afternoons the sky turns black. A wind picks my hair up and threatens to destroy us. Trudging the rain has become an everyday activity. Something I no longer think about. It comes with a shrug and a wave. It brings a coolness to my skin I only dreamt I couldn’t remember. It exists. It breaths life into me and my neighbor watches me from across the street, through the rain, through clouds of both our cigarette smoke.

"I’m not sure what else you need.."
Other than the hug I had just received, I wasn’t sure myself.
“I just want you to blow my mind.”
I wanted a drill bit in my temple to relieve the pressure. I looked to the sky, hoping to find a crack in the universe. Instead I didn’t find a single star and I sat down on a strangers doorstep in complete defeat.
“I just want you to blow my mind.”

Everything she felt, I felt. Everything she knew, I knew. It was my heart speaking to itself. But everything I said she doubted, I doubted. We doubted ourselves and got no where in the process. We were talking to brick walls. Being similar can be a burden, indeed.

Life in a box

The sound of a saw was deafening. She left lipstick rings on her cigarette and she felt heavy and warm. It rained all morning and she missed her own voice. She misses singing to you, but no longer missed you. You were just a memory. A smell. A vision. Fiddles accompanied the construction. The neighbors just watched. She sat in the window, watching smoke rings float into the air and counted the days she would be able to pick and play and sing. She had seen so much and couldn’t think of anything to sing about.

The air was swampy and it stuck to her like over applied lotion. She watched the skull swing from the ceiling and wondered how her life was going to be. There are too many options.

She waited for the lightning storm that was promised. She had dinner already prepared and a bottle of wine waiting to be celebrated. The night sky had been bright pink and the daylight was grey. Prayer flags swayed in the open window and the wind knocked portraits off the walls and into the kitchen sink. She read about Frida Kahlo all afternoon and found a familiarity in her painted eyes. Felt a deep sadness when she read, “For the first time, I’m not crying anymore.” She wanted to take her heart out and paint with her own blood, as Frida did. Giving away the heart with love, having lovers to give it to. Gone are the days of remembered love.

'romance with wine' sasha luss by mariano vivanco for vogue russia march 2014

'romance with wine' sasha luss by mariano vivanco for vogue russia march 2014