luciabordeianu

Fata de la Belleville

cand esti singur,

cand te simți singur pe lume

desi ai in jur oameni,

si te doare si ai avea nevoie

de o imbratisare strânsă,.

dar nu ai unde sa iti faci culcuș

acum,

deschide șifonierul!

intinde mainile pe un raft mai sus,

lasa-ti obrazul peste hainele care miros a curat

si ramai asa o vreme,

cu capul si brațele in interiorul sifonierului

cu ochii închiși, imaginand un om

in locul sifonierului,

poate cineva drag,

poate o persoana necunoscuta,

care sigur exista undeva.

nu este nevoie de cuvinte pentru o îmbrățișare

zdravana.

e bine si in tacere.

doar că ..

sifonierul meu nu are inima si aud cu urechea

stanga

doar zgomotul inimii mele

venind din piept.

ma îmbrățișez si ma iubesc singură

cand nu e nimeni altcineva.

uneori însă uit ca pot deschide sifonierul

ca sa mă cuprindă.

I didn’t tell you, but I still have

that Pink Mai Tai bottle.

What was your intention with it?

Bring summer in the middle of my November?

Dive with me in the pacific waters?

Pour citrus drops through my lips,

on top of my tongue and farther,

deeper,

arise inside me the taste to live this life?

Despite the fact you don’t like sweets,

am I as pink as a candy to you?

Was that your way to take my hand and

run away on an island beach?

Get your body closer to mine

and dance slowly on exotic Hawaiian sounds?

Or maybe it was just a simple alcoholic drink,

that boys offer because is worldwide known

pink is girls colour.

If this is the case, am I the colour of a girl to you?

Do you paint me with your eyes

in pastel shades like those famous artists

from the past?

Am I your muse?

Is this just a simple state of a lonely mind?

Am I already drunk and are all of my thoughts

signs of an alcohol abuse?

I opened a poetry book,

but I skip the first one and keep it for the end.

Because, at beginning, all want to make a statement

and I adore surprises, so

I prefer to wonder all these 3 hundred and

ninety 5 pages,

imagining what he wanted to say to me.

Mmm… more than that, is because I hate

all the endings, a reason why I always use

to come

back

to all my beginnings,

from time to time,

again and again,

whispering to myself that everything last

forever and ever.

Addiction.

So I will end my reading with his beginning

and because I am an independent

(a.k.a. busy)

woman,

I might make time dilate

until infinity.

Q&A:

Will I ever read that one?

Maybe.

I was sitting at my table,

the one from the corner,

where

half of it is in the shadow,

half is under

sun.

and I like it like this.

‘cause I can never decide

which side

I love or I need

more.

and anyway, I can move from this seat

on the opposite,

whenever

I feel I want.

…

sometimes I don’t switch.

I keep my ass on the one which offers

the best view,

a combination between those old city buildings,

crowded narrow streets,

filled with chairs

and tables

and people

eating together, drinking or walking up and down

to find a place

to stop

to eat

and drink.

some of them, a lot, are tourists.

here, at pub, majority are locals.

I can say by their faces.

is like…

they don’t give a fuck,

is like they don’t care where they are,

what they eat

or drink.

but, in fact, I think they do.

above this black and white picture,

whenever I raise my eyes a little more,

I hit the green hill that they call a

mountain.

then I remember I met some mountains in my life.

I climbed on top of some,

few times I crossed the other side,

but it took me 16 years to go on top

of this one.

…

so, I was sitting at my table,

sipping my usual unflitered beer

from an oval stemmed glass

(the one and only place on earth where I drink beer from a glass),

scrolling my old android mobile phone,

hunting the online international agencies news or

those funny, sarcastic deep meaning posts of

my few social media friends.

…

so I was lazy there,

lighting from time to time

a cigare.

the summer sun was exploding into my face,

squeezing my eyelids,

forcing me to put on my prada

second hand sunglasses.

a jazz sound was playing inside,

behind the wooden bar and

every surrounding table

was full with groups chating, laughing loudly.

one woman had a laptop in front of her.

she was talking with her friend

while typing something important,

I supose.

next to me was a group of three,

not older than 35.

their words were torn from

dictionary files.

they were dressed for some mountain trip.

boots, shorts and all that shit you need

to go away and come back one piece.

all summer long,

several suns touched their skins on those hights,

turning them into a roasted surface.

…

maybe I’m kinda hungry.

…

I enjoy people telling stories about mountains and

their climbing on rocks,

difficult routes, tents and night fires under

the lighted sky.

delicious are the adventures

with savage animals.

…

so I was sitting at my table, not hunting news

or scrolling on

social media anymore,

all my ears for them.

I even put my sunglasses on,

becoming a sort of Colombo

in disguise.

I think they painted a smile on my face,

for few times, but then,

suddenly,

started a talk about…

books.

writers.

again some other books,

some other writers.

theories, concepts, the art of exposing,

philosophers,

a line that unites ancient with present,

a line that cross from east to west,

oriental culture rising upon occidental,

african poets,

the scandinavian influence,

the south american vibration.

I

am

lost!

I became so small that I can crawl under

my

table.

I’m so insignificant now

that nobody here

can see

me.

(not even sure they’ve noticed me before).

I am stuck in this

world wide biblioteque

where all those writers,

boys and girls,

let their written words

to dry on sheets of paper,

papyrus

under a millennial solar ray.

…

then my mind jumped on a dusty street,

there, in my grandpa village.

burned by a deadly summer sun,

tabacco leaves were drying silently,

hanging on fances.

I used to steal a leaf,

chew it,

swallow that bitter stinging saliva and then

spit it out

at my feet,

in the dust.

…

so,

maybe…

these three were used to chew books pages,

swallow the sweet bitter saliva

and spit out words

on the concrete streets,

as they were doing now,

this reminded me I still have

my cigares.

…

so I was sitting at my table,

smoking,

sending circles into the dusk,

thinking there is nothing to worry about.

the hill was still there, standing in front of me,

yet not a mountain.

I was sitting at its feet,

yet not a writer.

…

so this is why I should go back on social media

and mark myself safe

to all of you.

because there is nothing out there

or inside here

that we should worry about.

M-am gândit cu două zile în urmă

sa-mi cumpăr cadou Blandiana

și azi mi-am amintit de ea,

că am uitat-o și este încă acolo,

în wish list.

Acum, fiindcă insist să disec ideea profund,

mă trezesc în fața unui raft cu cărți dintr-un mall

unde, după ce am atins-o, m-am retras și

am lăsat-o baltă.

Probabil că nici nu aveam bani.

Ce?

Voi nu ați abandonat?

Sau lăsați în urmă vreodată?

Sau poate nu ați fost, ca și mine,

gata să citiți femei…

îmi ling și îmi mușc ușor

buzele și nici nu îmi dau seama

din prima

c-o fac.

sunt genul ăla care se mușcă până la sânge,

genul care nu se oprește oricât ar durea,

genul care își sapă rana adânc în carne

și care gustă cu foame din fiecare secundă

cu tine.

rewind.

aerul rece metalic in contact cu saliva

m-a adus înapoi.

în ultima vreme,

te întrebi uneori și tu ca și mine

cine dracu’ suntem noi doi?

suntem demoni?

suntem fluturi?

suntem flăcări sau valuri?

suntem aievea, pururea?

te-am întrebat știi de ce îmi ling si îmi musc

buzele?

de ce? ai răspuns

pentru că am chef, am zis

și tu ai făcut mmmm.

standing in fishermen’s spot, smoking in the dark.

on the other shore of the lake,

a saturday night summer party

was breaking down the silence and those

humans voices sounded

louder than their music.

for moment,

I don’t know what you were thinking about,

but I was in Dirty Dancing.

without melons.

a few seconds I listened to do you love me playing

in my head.

then I came back to us and

you were so fucking hot

with a t-shirt around your neck, while

the lake shone

under the strings of light bulbs that adorned

the opposite side.

so, gazing at you, I could distinguish a perfect

form.

along with our cigarettes smoke,

I inhaled its scent, left all over me,

when we were…

I can tell by your eyes that you,

probably,

liked me since

we first crossed ways under this steel sky,

magnetising the matter between your body

and mine.

I can tell that we both were positive.

Negative in same time,

so…

Distance always was wide in a space

that kept us bounded with rough rope.

We catched it by hands and pull

in million

of invisible moves,

a blues, a waltz or a tango.

Now I can whisper all,

while lips

touch your ear I’m not only in thoughts

anymore.

I’m closer! Here, near.