here is my hand -

no more fragments, you get all of me.

the attic

& on an attic of sort
in stillness on the last night
somewhere i never thought we'd be
he turned and said -
"don't doubt yourself,"
as the Sao Jorge witnessed before me

Serendipity, in a city

Here we are, in the most quaint corner. Dotted on the point of the map. Across the Atlantic - in a city so rich in history. This is me - and you, in a quarter among colourful houses and a fountain. Sipping drinks over lunch in Alfama. Where even hanging laundries seemed so pretty. Where narrow alley-ways and true blue skies meet. Where hills and paths of streets shyly reveal views of the sea. Bookmarking frames in my memory.

Here, aimlessly we wander the streets into the night. Among tourists and locals alike. While acoustic strings and wonderful men sing to midnight. While I trail away pieces of me - like breadcrumbs on these cobblestone steps.

Here, where violins and strings made me stop on my tracks. Sitting on the white balcony of a closed Camo Convent, we arrived a little too late. Yet as if it was meant to happen. The sound of "The Prayer" tugged away from the air melodically, and straight to my heart, as it trickled its way down my cheek.

Here, we missed the sunset - overlooking cliffs. Yet, the waves and wind that rushed before me, made me feel a familiarity of tininess I have felt once before this. Remember kayaking under the grotto hours before? How perfectly nature arches itself. How lively the sky seemed - reminding me to breathe when I feel restless and breathless by such beauty.

Here, under the stars of a breezy night. Tell me things. Of family. Alluding to unconditional love I know you are capable of. Of which maybe I will never have, but I may have glimpsed briefly.

Here, in transit - in between reflections. In silence. Between stolen glances you sneak, until our eyes meet. Make me believe again, that I can be less alone. Make me believe again, that I am home - even though I am far away from where I should be.

Here, where many fado singers echo the voices of the country. Little did we know that they would serenade us, while my hands clasped between yours - and my heart, soul, breath feel as full as the moon above me.  As we sit in the attic of the hostel on our last night, overlooking the castelo - already reminiscing the mysterious paths and moments of wandering lost in this city. Sighing away, sharing secrets and stories.

Here, for a moment, I was able to see and feel everything before me. It was as if wandering lost, allowed me to collect myself - and find all of me.

tongues

you can learn many different languages

be fluent in many tongues,

yet still lose words to describe what you are feeling.

his laughter is like the crack of dawn,

there is warmth when it accompanies mine. 

wind

There will always be whispers.
And maybe they will assume
you turn red out of guilt.

When really,
your cheeks have learned the art - 

to numb itself
from the coldness of it all. 

under cover -

& here I thought
I’d never spend the weekend
all day in bed
again

tending to wounds
without bruises
to what I am & became.