evolution of an imaginary affair

Endless violations of everything,
everything she knows,
everything she wants to be true in life.
How to continue after that kind of transgression?
Cautiously juggling bliss, pride and humiliation.
Self-worth becomes something silly, found in the inspirational quotes-section in online forums
- what does it really matter?
Worth becomes relative, elastic, irrelevant.
And if her sense of self is threatened; that can be dealt with later.
Later might as well be a different planet and she's reluctant to pull herself out of the orbit just yet.
Despite everything she may be feeling, all the convictions she has abandoned,
She knows that his gaze upon her is really just searching for his own reflection.
Maybe he lost it somewhere along the way, maybe he just wishes it was a little different.
And for as long as she lies there it is. Different.
They both lie, obviously.
What did she really know?
She would take whatever she could get- and odd phrase for her, but there it is, spelled out in all honesty.
It was never true before but writing it she realizes it is all she can offer.
Strange how compromising herself could so easily be presented as a gift.
Curious how readily he accepted it.
Funny how first person narration fails me.

An underwater earthquake

the surface of things
is all, that's all
a window- not to the soul-
but to whatever image can be salvaged from the remaining fragments.
Reconstructing the few pieces left behind,
many were sacrificed in emotional sandstorms before I could consider the postscript
a time before I forget but after I can really remember
Maybe if I change the pronoun?
I wanted to recall the first trickle of feeling,
how I was looking at my feet because it was suddenly a little difficult to breathe,
- my sparkly toe-nails offering a slight distraction. 
the way his presence was heavy somehow, or was that mine? 
How shockingly guilt-free that first touch which should have felt clandestine,
How the world shifted a little and nobody would ever know.
An underwater earthquake.
Maybe it was symbiosis?
Maybe it was pheromones.
This may be phantasmagoria.

philosophic catastrophe

The world is burning. The world is drowning.
If it were not endlessly heartbreaking it would be ironic,
that two of Plato's fundamental elements would crash into each other so violently.
that the roots upon which everything else was built should turn against us.
In Greek philosophy Fire and Water were derived from chaos,
but if chaos is the beginning, what will be the end?

Piccola pietra

I've been thinkning about where everything comes from.
Me- this bundle of qualities, emotions, opinions- 
If I am a graveyard of past experiences; a recollection of places, people, plights?
Or an island, born and refined over time. A pebble on the shoreline.
Every year a little more like herself.
As though the waves had washed away all pretensions and attempts at hiding behind old illusions.
There were days when I'd write odes to the Bel Paese,
Sometimes I still find them and cringe over their poor grammar and distasteful drama.
I would buy La Gazzetta dello Sport and cut out pictures of Maldini,
paste them in my notebook and move on as if I had ever cared about Serie A.
Every night I'd put children to bed singing piccola pietra, che forse un giorno si poserà..
Occasionaly I'd brew espresso for four and pour it into a big cup and drink it all.
Sure, I was a little shaky but who wouldn't be? 
I was alive.
There was a time when I pretended that every song about "her", was about Italy.
Vivo per lei was my anthem and I recited it to anyone  who would listen.
At 19, there's a certain narcissism to life.
I was sure nobody had ever suffered like I was suffering.
I was abandoned by someone but felt that the real problem was that I had betrayed Italy.
Loving her and leaving her.
Like he had loved me and left me.
In retrospect it is easy to see how naive I was.
Believing that life would be week nights at the Irish pub and Sundays in the park,
Enigmatic men with secrets and a penchant for philosophy.
Wine, coffee and gelato. 
And thinking that love could be earned if only I learned the words.
- curre, curre guagliò - 
I did not see it coming,
Real life, the one you cannot plan, pre-book or conjure with foreign phrases.
Where poems don't serve as collateral,
and your value is not determined by how good you are at coming back for more.
Where we are all portions for foxes, but we've learnt to live with it.
So, I guess I am wondering.
If I am I still the girl who woke up to romantic texts that seemed profound
but turned out to be scrambled lyrics from the latest hit from Raf.
The girl who threw her bag away and pretended it was stolen to get out of trouble.
If I woke up tomorrow, poured myself four espressos and just kept going- 
Would I find her, am I her?
And if not, where is she now?

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