And I still want to know: what does your face look like at 5 am on a Sunday morning.
Hair unkempt, face unmade, with sleepy eyes, more in a dream then awake.
What a night has done the morning will bare. What the dinner had served the breakfast will top.
A shower alone or together, a word or many or none. Fear, by then is gone.
And what ever follows, can leave alone.
First, let’s move let’s dance another time.
And then see, what ever lunch will be.
Tomorrow will be a new day,
With new experiences,
With new visions.
I hope I will see your ghost face for a little while and I will gift you a little smile.
All I have is all I am.
And when that’s to much, take what you can, you want, you need, you feel.
I will do the same, when I can.
Breaking my own heart into pieces.
Bending my own mind till it scatters.
Wondering if I am doing ok.
I am unexpected.
I feel noisy when I’m quiet.
And unprotected when I’m safe.
Insecurity is also my currency.
Just like your thoughts and mind and energy.
“Be like the fountain that overflows, not like the cistern, that merely contains”
And more so, realise to be like water to fill any shape.
Water is free to flow, be around anyone and anything.
Let no one drown in you as not to loose them and yourself.
Rather, allow them to walk on water, dance in your rain and close around them to cool and warm.
Water is free, so I will be.
After finishing up Veronika wants to die.
I can say, being a mad man, but not managing to appear normal, I still really enjoyed it.
It’s quite realistic. Though, I wish men would stop writing from a woman’s perspective. Unless you really are gender fluid, we just cannot.
A sad song to feel better.
A little bass to feel whole.
Thoughtful lyrics to keep the attention.
A beat to keep to dancing.
Just one of those things I have written for you.
I long for your kiss.
Your breath on my chest.
Your hair in my face.
Your legs curling around my legs.
There is a promise I would give.
To listen and see as much as I can.
To understand and explore.
To be free in giving and taking.
No ambivalence no ambiguity.
Say what you feel and don’t worry to hurt.
Don’t possess, just give what you can and take what you need.
Consent begins where boundaries end.
As the night is deep and streets are empty,
I think of you and an invisible hand squeezes mine and I think:
Thank you for being, where ever you exist.
Two weeks ago a cat visited me at night.
I was half asleep, when it treated lightly over my legs and curled itself right next to my back.
I did not turn, to not disturb it during its stay.
It purred a little, watched me fall asleep.
I don’t know it name or it’s colours.
For it was a ghost that protected me that night.
And watched me sleep.
What are your boundaries?
Where is a limit reached?
I want to push a little harder.
There is this face in the crowd I can easily make out.
There is a head on the gallery that shines back.
There are two hands formulating.
Finally, there is a name I want to speak.
Say it with me:
My name is
And if you said your name out loud, come to me.
MT3–3
Where I met you on the 3rd of March.
Where we fell in love.
Where we fell apart.
The dragonflies where dancing today.
So many, a small cluster.
I wonder, do they feel?
Dancing, beautifully.
Spoken fleetingly.
Or brief.
And I don’t mean that negatively.
Time has a funny taste.
Journeys overlapping,
Journeys drifting.
A happy drift.
An exploration.
Words can betray their meaning.
No.
Words have their own meaning to you, to me.
A wish of luck, is a wish of happiness. To you.
A wish of luck, is believing. Me in you.
Those who don’t think, miss the meaning.
Those who don’t feel, miss everything.
And to those who miss, all of this is madness.
A woman in front of me, watching some male idol video. She noticed the ad glued the door right in front of her, showing an Arashi singer, advertising an energy drink.
She caressed his face on the small door sticker photograph. With care, following his cheeks, his libs.
A beautiful display of desire, even when designed to sell.
I’m glad to see there is such tenderness in this train.
A dialogue in silence, as advertised,
Is like sex without touching.
You can enjoy.
But you can despair, just as easily.
If you cannot read the air, you are not sure when it’s enough, too much.
And the plead: “let me know when you had enough” is not heard in silence.
Only getting up.
Which breaks the heart.
There is an event in a large Department Store in Shibuya. The Ad starts asking if people have struggle expressing themselves in Japanese, English, Chinese and Korean.
I would not be able to do that. I like silence. But I need to know first, that silence happens in trusting each other.
I wanna see your face.
On a Sunday morning at 6.
Unmasked, unmade, summerly sweaty.
Asleep and awake, going back to sleep.
I wanna see your hair fall freely,
Taste your skin,
Touch your lips.
I would find—a piece of who you really are.
I imagine this wonderful.
I cannot stop thinking of you.
I cannot sleep.
I remember these words I wrote for you:
“A whisper in your ear,
words unknown,
language unspoken,
pure lust,
pure pleasure.”
I could add: words unsaid, unwritten, unsent, unseen.
A hand brushing a hand. A smile meeting a smile.
A story without beginning or end. Just a middle; a now.
The drugs start to work, my eyelids are heavy. Behind them a living picture, showing you. Morphing in and out of age and statue.
The music is very quite now. No requiem but thoughtful, melancholic.
Enjoying tragedy, together.
A whisper in your ear, a word in your hand, a sentence on your tounge, to kiss.
Poems whispered all over your body (with lips and hands).
Words, fire, spoken, sung.
Language succeeds, when it brings us closer.
It combines, as sound as vision as lust.
Come and see all this.
It is for you
Sitting in a kitchen with you, listening to the radio.
We speak or not or smoke some pot.
A tea or wine, to go with that.
Evening time, a faint light and a candle.
But we just listen, relaxed and enjoy.
Till we get up and go.
I thought I went further, but somehow I didn’t.
I thought I kissed, but somehow I missed.
I thought to laugh, but somehow staid quiet.
I thought I had seen, but closed my eyes.
I thought time had passed, but no;
though I still made it far enough.
To live again.
(at Yokohama station)
We meet, we talk.
We sit, we joke.
We look onto and see deep.
We go home and say: no matter what, this is now!
Buttons open, shoes dropped off.
Not even a kiss yet, just a whisper.
But then sweet taste, sweet smell.
Sitting down, heads up.
A dance of skin, still onlooking.
We observe, we care.
Is there time? Time is there.
A drop of wine lip to lip.
And slowly diving into it.
Descend.
Coming out the other side, we melted together through sheets, through walls.
Still, you say, be still. And look at me.
I look on and on. My eyes fly.
It’s impossible to express. Beauty of the moment of the body of the soul. I say.
It moves me.
We don’t want this to end, we say, with eyes and words and kisses.
To Bacchus we pray, for amber to wrap us, we wait, till the moonlight falls and we awake.
Still old and grey, but glad—we met.
When you laughed, was I funny or extreme?
When you laughed, did it feel good or full of shame?
When you laughed you wanted to join I think, but couldn’t.
When you laughed, you were radiating.
Words by taotsu 