Morirte de ganas por besar a alguien.

Posted by Mrs. Kite | Posted in | Posted on Thursday, May 31, 2012


Hablábamos del sufrimiento cuando la plática rápidamente tornó a ser sobre los placeres: un orgasmo, dormir, comer, un buen vino, una buena cerveza, besar.
Pensé en el morirte de ganas por besar a alguien:
Ver sus labios mientras hablan, como se aprietan y se sueltan. Querer ser sus palabras, entre sus labios, empujadas por su aliento. Silencio. Sentirte observada. Verlo a los ojos y mostrar una sonrisa nerviosa. Distraerte imaginando el beso. Sentir nervios porque te vio mordiendo tu boca, mientras veías la suya. Sentir nervios porque no sabes de que ha hablado el último minuto.
Si eso no es placer, no sé que sí lo será.

Al final, se habló del sufrimiento por la falta de esos placeres.
Placeres que al fin son placeres-sufrimiento.

Sufro por no tener a quien sufrirle. Eso es lo que extraño.
Pero el maldito sillón sigue en el mismo lugar,
siendo café (café de insomnio y noches perdidas, café como sólo él sabe serlo)

Mistakes will tear this life apart

Posted by I'm the penguin | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, May 27, 2012


How are you feeling?

And don’t say just fine

     (Well. Then I guess I’m feeling misshaped. A complete mis-fit, although that’s nothing new.    But this time we're making a move, we're making it now. We'd like to go to town but we can't risk it 'cause they just want to keep us out. But revenge is going to be so sweet. I don’t want their homes or their things; I just want to come out of the side-lines.

     And fuck this. Routine is biting hard, ambitions are still high but emotions won’t grow. And I want love to tear me apart again, even if it hasn’t before. I want my failings exposed and respect run dry. I crave crying out in my sleep. But I guess my timing is very flawed. I used to be somebody but now I’m someone else.

     And I’m sort of sick of being someone I don’t admire. But then sometimes it feels like heaven. Maybe I should just take apart my old things, set them on fire. I should feel like my new life can start, head out to god knows where. But who knows how it will feel a year from now?

      And then there’s you. I love you, but thinking of when we were together hurts so badly. When you looked at me so disappointed, so tired, I knew strings had broken, but you didn’t have to cut me off. Part of me knows it’s one of the things I’ve done, but I don’t want to live that way, reading into every conversation we had. I love you, but it hurts me. I guess now you’re just somebody that I used to know.)

I’m good, good. Nothing in particular, just, you know: here.