I forget

 Sometimes, I forget how to speak.

I forget the sound of my voice
and the clicking of my tongue;
I forget to breathe when I laugh 
and breath forgets me when I weep.

I forget that there are words to say
and I forget the words unsaid,
I forget the names of my friends,
and I forget that they have forgotten long ago.

I forget the things you have said
and I forget that you hate repeating yourself,
I forget that you loved me
and I forget that you forgot to tell me so.

Sometimes, I forget how to speak.

I have shed this skin of mine too often,
in order to forget the pain;
but I remember,
how difficult it is to forget.

Jehona Thaqi© [sunset in Zurich; Quai-bridge]

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If

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If I could teach my tongue
new languages and new words,
or new stories to tell,
maybe poems or songs,
or something quite different
of which the world has never heared,
I would teach my tongue
the most wonderful of all.

It would make hearts shiver
and eyes glare
and ears listen carefully to its sound and melody.
Heads would turn
from as far as sight can reach
and souls would find ease
at its first note.

If I could teach my tongue
a very new language
it would be the one I have always envied,
the one I have dreamed of,
as madly as a woman can dream,
it would be the language of silence,
for the reasons are clear.

How often have I talked
and written and composed
and sung
the most beautiful words that came to my mind,
until they became dull and lifeless
and somehow unreal.
If I could teach my tongue
a new language
I would tell you all the things
my words were incapable of.

Jehona Thaqi©

To my friend A. I.

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My friend and I were sitting on the veranda of a coffeehouse in a small alley of our town. We did not talk much that evening, instead we enjoyed every sip of our coffees. Suddenly she lowered her head and asked, with a solid voice but shaking hands, if I believed in love. If I believed that mankind was predestined to love. Or if we learn to love, just as we learn to speak. I had never asked myself if love was a magical thing or if it was something we had been taught to do by history.

I smiled, still thinking of an answer and asking myself if it really did matter. Would it change anything if it was one or the other? What would the point be of knowing where love came from? I leaned back and stared at the sky, how it slowly changed its colour from blue to pink to almost black. It was a cold November night, but a lovely and quiet atmosphere made my body feel safe.

“Maybe I am too naïve, but I think that love comes naturally.”, I said, still watching the skies, refusing to look at her deep brown eyes, “Love has always been with us. It might has changed over the years, with all the movies and books that make us homesick for warm bodies and soft beating hearts. But it must have been here all the time. How else could you explain us falling in love with views and flowers, scents and feelings?”.

She nodded, watching me with an utmost sadness. Even though I avoided looking at her I knew how she felt. Love could be cruel, maybe not love itself, but the way it makes you vulnerable. The way it sometimes makes you dependent on a certain person who can so easily crush everything you ever needed. “Are there people who can not love?”, she asked, with the same voice.

Her voice was one of these rare things you come across in your life if you are lucky enough. It made you go soft inside, even though it was not too feminine, but mellow and tragically lovely to listen to. I knew that her heart was aching at the very moment, but her voice continued being the same solid voice you could listen to all day. No stuttering, no broken words, but a melody as warm as the sound of spring.

“No”, I said, laughing ironically. “We sometimes love too little, or too much. We love the wrong things, seldomly the right. But we all do love. We are all different, so love has to come in different shapes and colours.”. She nodded again, as if my words did not matter at all, as if every other answer would have been the same. I felt dizzy and my vision was blurry, maybe because of all the different light bulbes of this small coffeehouse. How do you explain love to someone who’s heart has been torn by too many people? The lights shone green and yellow and red, I was tired and cold, and tremendously sorry for not being good with words.

She smiled, as if she had read my mind and wanted to say that it is okay. I knew it was not okay. I knew that heartbreak leaves footprints upon the walls of your soul, even love is unable to cover up. But maybe this is the beautiful part. Our broken pieces transform each of us into art. And when we get old, may those days come, we will look back and say we did it. With the right, or the wrong dose of love.

Jehona Thaqi© I would heal you if I could

Broken

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My hands keep shaking
whenever they hold yours.
You say this wouldn’t be easy
if I refuse to stay calm.

I stare at the ground
whenever I tell you why trying has been all I ever did.
You say you would trust me
but you can’t trust my heart.

The scars upon my wrists
are hidden underneath layers of
selfpity and shame.
You say you have never seen
wrists as small and fragile as these.
You say they are unable to hold something as heavy as love.
Love can not be broken, you say.

I say
do not define me by my brokenness.
Even if my heart lies in pieces
I will still love you wholly.

Jehona Thaqi©, I am more than my scars