To a stranger- letter 4


The last flowers survived

To J.

The sun drowned in my dreams last night, it sunk into the ocean’s ink, into the ashes – leftovers of a loveless sunset. Fires, stronger than the couple of hydrogen and oxygen, guarding the indigo veils, erased the contours of the sunlight. The rays of flamingo elegance escaped under the ugly granules of smoke and then the moon appeared, frigid mistress of the night, with a sterling beauty blinding the stars, spreading light on the wings of ice and whispers about something forever lost.

I woke up just before the beginning of the hurricane meant to demolish the silence in the skyscrapers lined like soldiers, saluting dead palm trees. The grieve had kept the sound of my voice a hostage in the nightmare, the whimsical universe where Lady Moon abducted the charm of every couple’s adagio had taken all my strength; and despite the summer streaming through the curtains, despite the warm, amber skin of the man sleeping next to me, it felt cold, Siberian cold.

I tried to hold to his masculine scent that charmed me in the first place and I wished I could tell him how scared I was, how tragic would be if my dreams came true; but he wasn’t next to me because of the ability to talk and listen and as soon as I realized that he wouldn’t be able to understand why I care so much about the sun, I sneaked out of bed and followed the black marble to the kitchen, looking for a pen and a cup of coffee, thinking how lucky you are to have a cat to snuggle next to.

The radio in the kitchen was still on from the night before and there was a Turkish song playing. I couldn’t make a word out of the lyrics, but I liked the music, perfect for a drive around the city, your city, wherever that was/is/. Somewhere in the sparkling parts of my imagination the majestic, oak trees drifted in the  rhythm of the oriental melody and the Spanish moss swirled around like the silk edges of a ball gown.

I heard your words and they carried pearls and breeze, pure poetry and smiles for my heart. And I was sure that the moon will no longer look like “melted mozzarella to my bleary and blurry vision”, that I won’t feel “tired, intoxicated”, but only in love with the gorgeous, green land of Flowers, even if the flowers are the last survived, turning slowly into burning candles …

* * * * *

“We are no more than candles burning in the wind” Japanese Proverb


The last flowers survived


@ 2012 Broken Sparkles


To a stranger – letter 2

And none will hear the postman’s knock
Without a quickening of the heart.
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
~W.H. Auden

Friendship gone sparkles …

The coffee has a strange taste today and the drops of milk are heavy, with burden. I could add a spoon of sugar, but I’m not sure if a fake sweetness is what I need right now and I keep on forgetting to add ‘honey’ on my supermarket list. There is an apple and cinnamon scented candle that wouldn’t leave the smell of the cigarettes lying in the ash-tray to make an appearance, but that only reminds me of a lost friendship thrown in the bin together with melted wax and used match sticks.

We were four of us once, soul-mates / were we really?/, and there was a time when I didn’t need to share my heart in letters to a stranger like you, but that was more than 700 coffees ago. I asked myself the other day what went wrong? How did I come to the day when I realized that in friendship only giving is not enough, that there is something in return that we all need? Gratitude! Gratitude for being there, for listening, for accepting even if not understanding, for making a happy face out of a broken heart…

It was a sunny day in October, perfect for walking by a river, suitable for sacrificing dried flowers in the name of a lost love; but instead we murdered instantly the goddess of hope and we rolled down to the 9th circle of Hell, to the point of no return. I never thought a sunset can look that ugly, grotesque leftover rays pointing at the hidden anger of the weak amongst us, at the cowardice of the silent witnesses who never dared to speak up, unless it was in their favor. Deep breaths overruled by a fiasco of a lifetime!

It’s strange that only today with the taste of strange coffee and the bracelet that I wear in red and white I saw in my memories how bloody the shadows of the sun were that day, lighting over the statue of a lonely musician and his song was no longer a reflection of a melody, but selfishness sinking into our actions. And we, we all wore the crowns of fools, saying ‘Cheese’ in from of the camera for a last time.

I left the old town with the river and the ancient theater in a hurry, leaving behind untaken pictures, unlived moments, unfulfilled conversations and I promised myself that I will never look back, that I will never grief over the non-existent explanation on how a friendship can go sparkles, while there was an army of stars ready to smile on the sky. But here I am, writing to a stranger, searching comfort that only a friend can give me.

The moment when you’ve realized that you haven’t been considered a friend when you were a friend for a half of a lifetime, nevertheless, that you were never good enough to be rewarded with a gratitude, is as scary as this moment when I am about to seal my thoughts in an envelope and address them to you, with the hope that you will answer and your answers will heal the past. It’s scary that I worship the words, not the words of friends but the words of travelers … and strangers, like you, they may seem, but only when the miles of the distance scream ..


"Writing a letter" courtesy


© 2012  Broken Sparkles


To a stranger – letter 1

To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart. ~Phyllis Theroux

The Paradox Of Life …

It’s raining tonight; it has been raining every day of this week. I have quite a few poems about the charming sound of drops falling on the windows, but in reality, from where I stand, I can barely hear any sound because of the metal blinds my windows and doors have. I could leave them open and listen to the rain coming and going, at times whispering; but on the next day, the first thing that I will see, is the dirt left on the glass and the idea of rain and charm together, will vanish within seconds.

I used to feel uncomfortable with rain. For years the memory of departing boats and big, salty monsters eating up the waving hands tortured me. While the rain took even the moment of grief away, not letting any tears to the surface. And then, one happy moment of another rainy day was enough to make me forget the fears that came with the rain.

It’s strange how poets find beauty in things which at a second glance are not that beautiful. Like the love shower scenes in movies, huge passion behind the steamed glass!  The actual scene is blurry, but the running hot water and the silhouettes deserve an astonishment: ” Wow, how great is that!” And when a real life, shower scene comes, I find out pretty fast that the steam, the feverish emotions are only a fiction, because the walls bite with cold and turn every kiss into an awkward moment.

Sometimes even staring at the moon is a kind of paradox, especially when there is a big lemon tree on the way. I like the view from your balcony. I wonder what is it to live so high above the ground? Is it noisy when the wind is around? Do you feel the sun heat even more; do you see the stars better? I wonder if I ever will be able to see the skies over there standing next to you?

The skies here look sad tonight. I don’t know why I start my first letter with a hint of melancholy, maybe because of the rain, maybe because of the distance!

If it was a week ago, I’d probably spill rage and sorrow for the burned streets of Athens and I’d curse the day I came here. If it was a hot summer night, then I’d sure write you a poem, sweet words to make you smile while you gaze at the stars and think of what taste the coffee will have on the next morning.

But it’s tonight and it rains, and I wish I could share the rain with you, but we are just strangers that once found a common musing, and this letter is just a random page of a forgotten book that no one will ever read; and the only good part is that as a stranger you could never leave me, because you were never here to begin with…



Image by Sonam Mandal


© 2012  Broken Sparkles