Her glare-rimmed glazy gaze
Clouded by coloured craze
Blackened by a burning blaze
Dreaming of distant days
Read MoreSnow tucked under his lower lip
Melting into his sleep
Where his thoughts and fears trip
Down into the deep
He moves his limbs, weightless
Sees his body, stateless
Fateless
Undisturbed by the hissing blow
Of wind coming through the window
Read MoreThis might have been yet another lie. A trip to Paris to see a friend he did not know. She left a note on the pillow. “Borrowed your blue suitcase. Gone for two days, to see my friend M.”
Read MoreIt all started with a misplaced Oyster card which I thought was in my usual coat pocket. One morning, we woke up to freezing weather. I changed coats and used my contactless debit card. It was a couple of weeks before Christmas.
We went on holiday with my family in France. London, the grey tube station, deep escalators and the nasal voices chanting “mind the gap” were far away.
Read MoreSuzie the Centipede scurries across
whitewashed boards
In lonely hospital wards
Where snoozing old men pretend they’re not bored
And chubby nurses grasp medical swords -
-Fighting bacteria in perfect accord
Suzie skids into the outside
She uses the wind as her guide
Read MoreA doubletree
that snaps
Into 5
skin cities
frozen vintage
Mochaland
It was like a breath of fresh air. The smell of youth, oxygen pixels, a movie she had seen so many time but that she loved, time after time.
There was nothing nostalgic or sad as she was browsing, head titled, weaving the moments, the season, the years, the homes where they lived, the countries where they had moved to.
Most she remembered easily, prompted by the images. But sometimes she would look at strangers, a place she had no recollection of. It was often sunny on the photos and they were leafs on the trees, flowers in the gardens. A string of summers, vacations, travels with seas and rivers and mountains and castles and statues in parks and on fountains, bas reliefs on the building. She would smell the summer air, the scent of the garden flowers, the iodine breeze of the ocean.
The rain had not stopped for days. Luke slept better on rainy days, window wide open. The regular soothing noise, the soft moisture in the air. In his lung and eyes.
He would forget his umbrella in places he could not remember. Offices and homes and shops may be. They all looked the same. His hair would curl slightly, little unruly hair on his temple. He had curly hair when he was a baby.
It had never occurred to him before that the rain made him look different. His wife Elisa would tell him: "You look different". She did not know why.
Read MoreJoy and sadness were inseparable. One would follow the other at some incredible pace. She would beam, laugh, talk without stopping, marvel at small things and hug us tight... we loved her most in those moments, she was fun and playful, our mother and best friend. She would chase us in the garden and in the streets in her sleeping gown, hair wild, eyes bright and mischievous. We would scream and run in front her her. Never mind the neighbours looking at us through their window, the old lady in the house with the red door nodding her head with contempt...we were happy and free and she was the most wonderful mum on earth.
Read MoreAfter all those years, his hands have never betrayed him. They firmly caresse the pieces of wood, gage its hardness. He checks for imperfections, rugosities and cracks. He welcomes them, anticipates the meeting shapes they will draw on his creations. He designs around them. Under his hands, they become embroideries, vigorous veins, mysterious maps on the wood.
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Tom never sleeps alone. He always brings someone in my room. Tom is one of my regulars. But there is no pattern or apparent logic to his stays. He just appears occasionally. I do not know much about him.
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Incomparable youth in his eyes,
As he starts out with a voice so peaceful and deep,
That sly, cocky hint in his smile,
The stories he tells that lull you to sleep
Read MoreA canvas filled with shapes,
and many obscure faces, open-mouthed,
Miniature carvings from men and women,
I trudge through the soaking woods, the lush green stillness trembling in the afternoon shadows. There is no one around me, and the wild desire to pierce the thickness of my solitude is immense. Mother is gone, and I know very well that she will never come home. When she left, I think she was already fading away. It was something I never understood, and that is why I am standing in sheets of rain, vulnerable, and weaker than I have ever been, here in the unknown. The stories she would tell me! Mother, I mean. She would grab me by the waist, slip her hands under my knees, and carry me, breathless, to the old Moroccan rug next to the hissing fire. I think dreams were here favourite thing of all, but the harsh truth of reality confused her.
Read MoreMaria always chooses Room 27 when she visits her dad. For a long time, I assumed that her Dad could not host her. Maybe his flat or house was too small. But I understood after listening to a couple of conversations over the phone that Maria's dad was married with someone who did not want to meet his children.
Read MoreIt was a small provincial hotel, in Marseille "vieux port". In the guides, they called it "hôtel de charme". Its original name was "hôtel Beauséjour". It was renamed "hôtel du Vieux Port". Room 27 remained room 27.
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