"Owls are not what they seem"
Awkward silences,
bitter like a bag of lemons
hang over you,
reminding you
that life could be different.
You find yourself
dry
in a pool of bath water,
because nothing
is ever as it seems.
Shadows and expectations
are two biggest enemies
of mine.
– Chatty Owl –
Such pleasure
to feel that bitter taste
on my lips –
a mixture of nature
and stale moments of today.
I touch the cold body
of the tin cup
while you warm up
your cold fingertips
on the small of my back.
This is the perfect moment,
you whisper,
and just like my gin,
I gulp
your words
down.
– Chatty Owl –
I lay still
patiently waiting
for you to come back to me.
Time slowly spirals its hands
one loop at a time,
until I find myself
transfixed
by the faint murmurs
of the street.
I shut my eyes,
listening to untranslatable coos
of a pigeon,
waiting
for your voice
to wake me up
from this
loneliness.
– Chatty Owl –
Simultaneously
I hug my loneliness and offer my body to you.
The need to have your hand on my face
is so overwhelming,
my eyes are begging you to
hit me,
wipe my tears,
touch my cheek while you look away.
Anything,
as long as I get the physical expression of what you call
a lustful attention.
The minute I wake up,
I want to replicate the fantasies in my head,
thinking that if I act long enough,
my life will become a pool of petal-filled happiness.
Pretty as a snowflake
and cold as a thousand of them,
I learn lessons of life
the hard way.
One step forward and three back –
that’s the pace of the mechanical love.
Poisoned with apathy,
I stare at pictures of myself,
while my fingers are busy picking cogs
out of my favourite clock.
Time becomes irrelevant,
when your life is inked with misfortune.
– Chatty Owl –
Thin,
like a fresh sheet of ice
on a remote pond,
another layer of you
is discovered.
– Chatty Owl –
I remember the odour
of your leather
while deafening German sounds
were slowly killing me
with a desire
to never stop kissing you.
I remember the scent
of your embraces,
they felt like you
were borrowing my life
for some freak show.
Years later,
I’m here again,
in the sweet spot
of square one –
same name,
different letters,
and yet another indescribable feeling
of loss,
just in reverse this time.
I looked up to you
so much,
it started to feel
like a hungover cocktail
of hot and cold.
Consumed,
more than by any other experience
in the past,
I finally overdosed.
On you.
And it seemed like a such good decision.
– Chatty Owl –
That new feeling
of opening my eyes
and wanting to •not• die.
I silence my needs
with my own hand,
as if wanting to feel
what it is like
to feel them drip
between my fingers.
I’m drunk
on your ruptured love,
and I’m sober
because of the lack of mine.
Months and months
I spent watching
moths
eat me from the inside.
Holes in my words
were making more holes in them,
and I was deteriorating
from within.
I still feel
the sting of your words
and
the taste of my own ones,
stuck in my throat.
Salty.
Like the smell of the sea.
I constantly look for you(r)
replacement,
I substitute this strong feeling
with a physical need.
You know,
I would kiss
every man in this world,
if it meant
I would feel at least half
of
what it was to be with you –
imaginary moments.
My days became a ghost town,
where I walk alone,
thinking about those split seconds
when I gave myself to you,
and didn’t even dare to think
I’d be eaten alive.
– Chatty Owl –
Bright peachy walls that
guarded my youthful birdiness once –
I still remember reasons
why green was my favourite colour,
and how I played keys
while looking at instructions,
and how I disliked the melted river
of milk chocolate on my tongue…
as if trying to rebel
against the recipe
of how to be a child.
Leather-bound coins
and little front pockets
were my weekly reminders
that I’m still breathing.
Together with stains
on my maroon clothes
that I carefully inspected
with my fingers.
I never managed to wash
that
one
stain
off.
I drifted
between poverty of feelings
and the need to find compassion.
I gullibly trusted my intuition
that sometimes
just failed me –
like an exam I didn’t care to study for.
Always drifting,
always trying to find
that perfect spot in life,
and make it my best friend.
That only one.
There were bars on my window
when I tried to breathe in
the winter air,
and I still remember the smell
of the morning snow,
mixed with metal,
while
watching others
enjoying the freedom of coldness.
So I created mine indoors.
Freezing my heart with indifference
and preserving the purity
of the iron untouchability.
Alone was my middle name,
a symphony written for one.
Nobody liked me,
yet everybody loved me.
They still do.
It’s time for that girl to come back.
– Chatty Owl –
No, this is not for you.
It’s not for him either.
This one is for
my-
self.
Getting words out from me is
art.
I part
my lips,
but I don’t part with my secrets freely.
An open conversation with me
is like slitting fish –
difficult to grasp,
difficult to maintain,
yet
you still can’t resist to get your hands
dirty.
High
on the sight of a bleeding sun,
I count all those moments
that made me think
low
of you.
Little acts of kindness
were like magnetic light –
intoxicating,
yet it resembled that sensation you get
when you stumble in the dark,
trying to find a familiar object.
An enigmatic quest
of lost surroundings.
This.
This moment right now.
I want you to ask me,
if this is for you.
I want to stare at you in reply
and mutedly nod.
And I want the movement of my head
to be the answer that I’m lying.
– Chatty Owl –
Echoes of soft ripples in the night,
like waves that lick against
the shores
of my mind and body,
lighting my eyes
(the way only you can),
and guiding you to me
in an ocean of smiles
and uncontrollable kisses –
you don’t have to say a word,
your mouth writes vast seas upon my lips,
and my tongue replies in swirls
and eddies of wet touches.
Your everything
is an instant reflection of my desires –
your fingerprints on my spine
leave salt-stained proof
of my happiness.
I insist on keeping you close to my breath,
because I can’t get enough
of the sin you leave inside me,
Beads of sweat,
like little crystal balls,
soak up our memories of this night,
recording the passion,
to tell it in the future, so
we would never forget
where I belong –
drifting endlessly
in your arms…
– Chatty Owl –
CHATTYOWL 