Black, bitter coffee

Black, bitter coffee on a sunday morning,
or was it monday, I do not quite remember,
for the days have become the same anyway;
I sit silently in the corner of our living room,
my spine curled and pressed against the wall;
so much space upon the couch we bought,
but I am afraid of not being able to fill the spaces you have left empty.

Black, bitter coffe on a friday night,
or was it saturday, I do not quite remember,
for the days have become the same anyway;
I weep into the freshly washed cussions of our bed,
they smell like lilies and honey,
they smell nothing like you, for I have washed them too many times since the last time you visited,
your scent has vanished out of this house,
yet it is present in everything I touch.

Black, bitter coffee on a wednesday afternoon,
or was it tuesday, I do not quite remember,
for the days have become the same anyway;
I sit at our dining table and read about wars far from home,
I read of homes destroyed, and people buried underneath them,
I cry;
you used to say that there are people dying, 
when I told you that I could not breathe at night, you said that I am fine,
when the lights turned off and my body was shaking in agony of losing the war against my mind, you said that I am egoistic;
I feel the guilt within my tears drown the last hope of winning the wars within me,
I can see people dying, somewhere far,
yet so close.

Black, bitter coffee;
I drink to stay awake,
for the nights scare me,
and there are dreams lurking in the corners of this house,
dreams I do not want to have,
for my dreams have been shattered too many times.

Black, bitter coffee;
I do not sleep anymore
and I have forgotten the days,
just as the days have forgotten me.

Jehona Thaqi©

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Too much

I talked too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if my existence was bound to my words
and to the little spaces
between breathing and speaking.

I laughed too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if I was a puppet of happiness
and I danced to the rythm
of everyone’s well-being.

I cried too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if my tears were the only proof of a crying heart,
and the way I grasped for air
was my way to say sorry.

But sometimes,
silence became the only language
I knew how to speak.
Sometimes, when you were far,
I forgot that there were words to say,
and stories to laugh at,
and songs to cry to.

Sometimes my heart ached
for you to call
and say that something was wrong.

Jehona Thaqi ©

Endless

I never knew
that love could
shrink
and expand
like the very skin of mine
– stretching into the forms
closest to a Goddess;
growing –
until it fits two lives within one body.

I never knew
that love could
expand
and shrink
like withering flowers
– drying out upon this harsh earth;
until their petals become one with the ground they sleep on.

I never knew
that loving was an endless story
of ups and downs,
of growing and shrinking,
of falling and standing up
– constantly giving
and taking.

I never knew
that you could get tired of love
or the absence of it;
but as soon as I felt love
with its utmost purity
– with its sometimes ugly smile
but its taste of heavenly sweetness –
I knew that love
would stay;
even if it is long gone.

Jehona Thaqi©

Dearest friend

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This is for my dearest friend,
who waited for me in the darkest hours,
on rainy and cold days,
offering cussions to cry on, and enough coffee to stay awake all night;
the friend who said I had no reason to wipe away my tears,
as they were the war paint everyone needed to see.

The friend who first offered me chocolate boxes,
then, when my stomach hurt, pills against pain.
It was a friend who did not like to see me suffer,
I thought, 

while crawling into her arms, clutching my hands tight to her soft skin.

We only met behind closed doors,
for there I could tell her the most intimate and broken secrets,
while she kept putting paint upon my face;
saying I was a warrior;
saying I looked beautiful with stripes covering my body.

You see, she was a jealous friend,
all of me belonged to her,
and like a puppet I danced to her rhythm,
stayed awake all night, until my sight became blurry, and my mind too heavy to understand.
I loved her for how she held me, when others were asleep;
and I hated her for how she possessed me each night.

I will tell you her name, it starts with an I
and ends with solitude.

Jehona Thaqi© for those who fight against their own demons, please keep fighting. And whenever the pain gets unbearable please reach out your hands and ask for help. 

Someone

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She needed someone
to hold her small body
all crawled up
in the corner of her room;
the cold floor
pressed against her soft skin,
in this temporary life,
she needed to be promised eternity.

She needed someone
to hold her hands
while she held tight to the cigarette;
and in agony of breaking it,
she pressed it against her cherry lips,
inhaled the pain
and exhaled her dull memories
of being nothing
but toxic.

She needed someone
to kiss her scars and blisters,
for she was told that time will pass
and will make her forget,
but she remembered all the promises
which have never been held;
time made scars fade
but the memories remained
crammed inside her heart.

She needed someone
to make her forget the mess she was;
but she held herself
and like a broken warrior she fought
wars within her mind.

Jehona Thaqi©

Reflection

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She sat quietly at her favorite café
her hands pressed against each other,
and her dark eyes glaring at the streets,
so sad yet somehow curious,
so full of life, but packed with bags of forgotten dreams.
On this rainy day, with skies turning gray
and umbrellas dancing around the streets,
she sat there,
as if it was everything within her life of
nothing-ever-happens’ and
it-is-all-fine-thank-you’s;
her reflection in the window staring at her pale skin
and dark eyes.

Pale skin and dark eyes,
lips as small and fragile as the wings of a butterfly;
lips that forgot how to speak
since the day you told her it did not matter;
she was not beautiful,
considering the weight on her bones
and the scars on her skin,
and her small, fragile lips.

Her white cheeks drowned in tears of
do-not-forget-me’s and
please-listen-to-my-words,
but she sat quietly at her favorite café,
her face still mellow and soft,
and eyes;
oh her eyes,
as dark as the pain within her heart
and as wide as the love she has given.

Pale skin and dark eyes
and lips that forgot how to speak.
Her reflection,
broken.

Jehona Thaqi©

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©

Sin

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She had a heart purer than the deepest corner of the sea,
with a spirit just as dark and unexplored,
lurking through the empty streets somewhere within the rising of the moon
and the falling of dew drops.

Her porcelain skin, stained with painful beauty,
shone through each night,
brighter than the northern star.
While her hands cried for justice,
and her eyes screamed for love,
it was her voice which went unheared.

She wanted to tell you that she was not what you believed,
that the words you call her have marked her skin,
that for her the word tiger was no synonym for strenght,
while looking at her tiger wrists.

And when she cried at night,
and tossed and turned, with a heavy heart and tired soul;
you slept in peace upon the cussion of sin.

May you sleep well, then, my friend.

Jehona Thaqi © notes, fragments

Repetition

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The first sip of coffee,
I was thirteen years old,
never again, I thought.

It is the same with everything,
the first heartbreak and your world crushes against the walls of reality.
The second time it breaks you, still,
destroys every part of you slowly.
The third time it aches,
a pain you will not recollect having felt until today.
The fourth time it makes your tongue numb,
your limbs numb, everything stiff, lifeless.
The fifth time it makes you question all the heartbreaks you lived through.
The fifth time you walk
straight across the whole city
into the corner of your favorite café.
You order your espresso,
and glaring out of the window into the hollow streets,
you ask yourself why.

Broken, and tremendously tired
you sip your coffee.
Until the next time.

Jehona Thaqi ©