Thursday, July 30, 2015

Miss Havisham

"Did I never give her love! Did I never give her a burning love, inseperable from jealousy at all times, and from sharp pain, while she speaks thus to me! Let her call me mad, let her call me mad!"
- Great Expectations, Charles Dickens

I own her
In nights of wailing chest to knee, in three a.m. conversations with lady nicotine, in shortness of breath and mosquito bites, in the cafe on the far end of Adriatico Street, in drunk dancing to an old blues band

She is mine
In a wave of people dressed in white, in the popcorn booth table, waiting for a man, in cutting fabrics to be sewn but never to be worn, in the absolute of math and weaving dreamcatchers round and round and round

I thought I own her
In Japanese after disheveling of hearts, in late periods and never ending questions, in black paint and tattooed arms

I meant no harm
When I longed to save her from misery like my own, when I told her to feel nothing when affectionately touched, when I told her this will lead to that, when tried to own her, when

I tried to own her heart
I thought I'd give it shelter, I thought my hands were big enough to guide the beating, the pumping of blood but

She was never mine
And our hearts are different stones

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