Tuesday, 10 May 2016

Something borrowed, something new.

This is NOT a marriage post, but it does feel festive. I went out and got a website (something new) but I did manage to keep all my posts that have spanned 4 years (something borrowed). Change is scary but come check out the new site, it is neat and shiny:

www.LookingForThePotOfGold.com

Saturday, 2 April 2016

To The Girl He Loves.


There's you. And then there's me. I was his trial period. You, however, are the girl he loves. Never feel insecure about my existence because he left me. I was never his home, I was drunken sex and sloppy declarations of love.
When he tells you he loves green, it has nothing to do with the time we fucked on his couch and I kept my green dress on.
He'll tell his friends and family about you from the get go. I never warranted an explanation to anyone who saw me in his arms. We were simply two people who happened to be in the same place at the same time.
Everything I know about him doesn't matter, he will tell you much more. Some stories will feel incomplete, that's because I was there when they happened. But he won't say my name, I am forgotten. He will say only yours and that is enough.

Monday, 8 February 2016

The February blog entry.

Then
It starts with words, I read him before I know him. We make love in euphemisms and humour (always his) and form a fantasy void of reason. Nervous laughter aptly expressed in emojis and incoherent speech, I ask him if he ever makes himself laugh this hard. I bid adieu to reason, I want him to touch me the way he writes.

“I’m always soft for you, that’s the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say ‘come here, it’s been too long, it felt like home with you.”– Azra.T

Now
It happens so fast. One minute I am filled with resentment, I swear he will never touch me again. The next I am filled with fear, I am drowning and I need to hold onto something familiar. I am drenched in a longing I keep mistaking for love and he is drenched in certainty. He knows what hand will trace my spine to open me up. And I fight it, Lord knows I do. But the universe is my religion, and it keeps drawing me back to him. Hello turns into a kiss, unresolved feelings swept under a rug. Maybe this time he'll stay.

Tuesday, 12 January 2016

The Boys I'd Cheat on You With.

I'd cheat on you with the boy that's the messy eater. He makes me forget what a mess I am when all I want to do is clean up after him.

The boy with 9 or 10 scars that each have a story to tell. Especially the one on his left thigh which reminds him of me because I was there when he got it.

The boy who makes me forget which side of the bed is mine because any side next to him becomes my side.

The boy who still blushes after 3 years of being with me because my words make him feel invincible

The boy who eats breakfast for dinner with me because it's all I can cook and he insists every meal is the best I'll ever make.

The boy who plays in my hair as he stares at me for hours saying nothing but managing to say so much.

The boy who recites my poetry like he is reading verses from the Bible

But then I remember, all these boys are you. I resign myself to the fact that maybe I'll cheat on all the others with these memories of you.

Tuesday, 5 January 2016

Once Again.

He will remember the wine stains on my dress, my bruised feet giving way from misjudgment and 4 inch heels. A hazy recollection of straddling and calling out for a god who was nowhere at that hour and is nowhere now. What he won’t remember is how comfortable and safe I felt in his arms, let alone the fact that it was the first time I had felt that way in months.

Maybe he will remember my name, after all, it was profusely repeated like a child calling for its mother. Maybe I will remember how nice he was before he didn’t call. Maybe I will accept it for what it was, a single moment that managed to eclipse all others in its category.

I hope he doesn’t remember how eager I was to give my number, digits trembling from my lips. A tremble much like what his lips did to mine. I hope I don’t remember his face, so that I don’t gravitate toward him if I ever see him again.


I hope this doesn’t define me, because I loved every second of it. I hope it doesn’t define him because he is still the nicest boy I ever kissed.