If all questions find their answers …

“We are earnest to explore and learn all things, but we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable …”

― Henry David Thoreau

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The minute he told me he loves girls with short skirts, I knew, no matter how sweet my face is or how smart I am, he will never see me the way I want him to. Not that I can’t wear a short skirt, I probably can, but I think long skirts are much more alluring. Call me old-fashioned, but a woman doesn’t need to have all her skin out to look appealing. The shape of the body wrapped in a long, white summer dress, brushing the molecules of the sand under the sun and the reflections of palm trees in the sea, making a man wondering, somehow, makes much more sense to me.

Nevertheless, I had my moment of doubt and anxiety after the discovery, but I am still talking to him. Maybe because he challenges my mind in a way no one had for a long time; maybe because the smile on his face is like a soothing touch over my broken sparkles or maybe, I simply am not ready to let go of the muse I found in him.

He doesn’t say much, but then no real man usually does, just enough to answer my questions and to satisfy to a certain level my thirst; but he always leaves a door open for another question, for another message, for another conversation and this is enough to know he likes talking to me. I haven’t figured out why yet, but I think I don’t want to. All want is to know him better. Questions are bruising the surface on my lips and my fingertips are dying to flood the screen with words and get rid off of all the thoughts inside my confused head.

I want to know about his dreams and the colors of his heart, what makes him happy, angry, sad, blind with love; does he think of the moonlight, how he finds the words for his stories? I want to see him walking, talking to other people, other women, sleeping, having a shower or just a coffee in the morning before he drives to work. I want to ask him a million questions and I want him to ask me a million questions back … but I’m afraid that I will scare him if he finds how much I want. Or worse, he will give me what I want, he will flood back the screen with answers and will solve all the little mysteries occupying my brain right now.

And what if all questions find their answers, what if I end up alone, again, without a daydream to provoke my senses and keep me breathing? What if, with every answer, I see how ordinary a human he is and there is nothing sparkling in his short e-mails, nothing so sweet and dramatic in two people sharing the same sky across the oceans, through the plasma world of bits and bytes?

The Killers are singing their story about runaways, innocent souls catching the last glimpse of the summer wind and I am re-reading his last message, trying to find a meaning between the lines that doesn’t exist. And I know, I won’t ask him a question today, I won’t reveal how weak my heart is, not today! Today will forever remain mysterious and unexplainable, no question will find its answer, no illusion will be added to the pile of broken sparkles…

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Image by RedSheep Photography

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© 2012  Broken Sparkles

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What if … ?

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What if …?

What if the flow of unpredictable words you adore
and wait with impatience to hear,
because it comes with the language of my heart,
with the alphabet of my existence,
what if this continuous flow one day stops
and I have no more beautiful things to tell you,
no more stories of miracles to share with you?

Will you go to the first bookstore and replace my fairy tales
with a novel randomly chosen from the first bookshelf you saw?
Or will you try to find new inspiration to touch my lips with,
so I could speak to you again?

What if the brilliance, the enigma in my eyes
that you always wonder how to explain,
because it comes from a world of mystery,
from a land not mentioned in any geographic maps,
what if this secret of my look one day is gone
and I have no more potential to see you as someone special,
no more effort left to look at you with love?

Will you forget the color of my eyes and discover
new eyes to look at, in the crowd of people ahead of you?
Or will you make me see the different, non-existing side of you
and make me love you even more because of it?

What if the temptation that comes out of my body
and you put on pedestal with a triumph, ignoring our weak powers,
glorifying the first time you owned me,
what if this allurement, together with my body,
one day turns into ashes and I have no more feelings to offer,
not even a single act of care?

Will you accept the dry lust from a woman-stranger you will
accidentally meet in a bar, drunk, because you no longer have me?
Or will you read all scientific books to learn new ways to wake up
the volcano of hidden passion, buried deep inside of my body?

What if my heart that is the center of our lives,
both, mine and yours, because is connected to your heart
like a mom and a baby with an umbilical cord,
what if this heart one day choose to take a different path
and I have no more stability to comfort you with,
no more hopes and dreams to go after?

Will you stop hoping and dreaming too and take the road
to nowhere so you could forget about the memories of me?
Or will you collect in a silver jar
two drops of rain, piece of sunshine and a snowflake
and give them to an African magician to create
a new heart I can love you with again?

What if in just one day what we thought is good for us
suddenly appears not to be?
Will you surrender and accept the waste of tune with silence,
like many others did?
Or will you still stand by me and climb mountains, swim oceans,
make the impossible possible to bring it all back ?

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“What if …?” by Blaga Todorova

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© 2011  Broken Sparkles

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Almost a poem

Almost a poem

The train leaves at noon,
near by a field with cherry trees.
Minutes before, while he is still asleep,
I write a note and the night gown that I wear
doesn’t like the sound of the crying silk.
Quiet and with stains of memories on my skin,
while the pen hovers over the yellow-like paper,
dripping ginger and shimmers of adieu,
I gather up my dress, leaving unwillingly
the fervidly ripped, satin sleeves,
a wallet, an emotionless identity
and a receipt from the post office
for an amity package that I will never collect.
Behind the closed doors I blend with the faceless,
heartless souls on the way to the train, thinking,
maybe I should write a poem, an insane confession
about my love for the angel who found me too late,
long after I became a fire nymph in service of Hades.
The cherry trees nod in disbelief and I agree, after all,
who will read a sonnet that has the end of an eulogy?

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"A cherry blossoms fairytale" by Blaga Todorova

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© 2012  Broken Sparkles

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