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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If I should die

If I should die
bury me in a field of nothingness,
where flowers do not bloom
and the earth is dry.

If I should die
do not cry,
for death is nothing but part of this life.

If I should die
tell my mother I loved her
and my father, too,
tell my brother I loved him
beyond all the greatness of this world.

If I should die
tell yourself
that you were all I ever wished for.

If I should die
forgive me for my wrongs,
I had the dreams of a child
but dreams last only until they’re shattered,
broken,
forgotten like the dead.

If I should die
forget.

Forget that I lived for your love
and that you filled my lungs with air,
forget the sound of my voice
at night; when I said hold me, but you were too far,
forget my writings, all of them,
for I signed everything with your name,
forget the tears I cried
and the memories you broke.

But remember to visit me,
once
after ten years,
and see how I turned nothingness into everything you have ever dreamed of,
see how there are flowers sprouting out of my grave,
and witness how your tongue falls silent for the first time in your life.

Remember
that you can bury not only dead bodies,
but dead souls, too.

Jehona Thaqi©

Light bulbs

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Lamps hangig from ceilings
like dead bodies,
glowing with utter boredom,
so still and lifeless,
yet there for the reason when dusk arrives,
until dawn is welcomed.

Dead bodies hangig from ceilings,
like lamps,
moving with the tension of our minds,
so lifeless yet not still;
most when the moon shines bright
but no lights are burning in our homes.

Broken light bulbs like broken souls,
replaced by brighter and greater ones,
with few pennies and little effort.
But have you forgotten
the dead bodies
hangig from ceilings
like lamps?

Have you forgotten the broken light within souls
that needs not to be hanged
in order to shine.

Jehona Thaqi ©

Patience

It was a late night in a quiet city,
the winter-breeze dancing around the façade of our house

which was enlightened by the mellow moon-shine

and covered in freshly fallen snow.

I waited;

the candle-light flickered upon the silverware and wine glasses,

until the candles burned out;

and the light diminished upon a table full of things you loved to eat.

I waited;

sitting on the couch you had bought for us,

wearing the dress you loved,

all black upon my pale skin;

my eyes fixed on the clock,

my ears listening to the silence that seemed so violent within this small house,

my hands pressed upon my thighs,

agressively; in order to stay awake.

I waited;

you said you would be there,

as you did so often;

and when you could not make it,

you laughed, charmingly;

sometimes we make mistakes

you would say and kiss me on my forehead

and I would laugh, too;

the table still arranged,

it is alright, love.

I waited; 

but you did not come

until the first sun-rays shone through the curtains,

you laughed, and kissed me on my forehead,

the dress still upon my pale skin,

I laughed, too,

and left.

I had waited

too long.

Jehona Thaqi© (my drawing of Nera Z., you can follow her on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/nera.z/ )

This is no love poem

This is no love poem;
I wrote this
to remind myself that this heart of mine
has not been aching since forever,
to remind myself that your leaving
has not taken love along its side.

How often you have told me
that I was too young to love as much as I pretended
and how long I tried to convince you
that the older I got, the less I could remember the taste of sweetness upon your lips,
the less I remembered the fear of losing
and the fear of forever.

You see; today I woke up
drenched in dreams of things that never were mine;
hollow heart and no thoughts at all,
as if all we had lived through had been merely dreams.

Some people abuse drugs,
I abused love;
so much so that I became addicted to your recognition,
I craved your arms;
first only at night,
then every second of my days.

If only I had been weak enough to give up,
maybe I’d be lying next to other rotting bodies;
to addicts of all-kinds,
until the sickness of love had reduced my bones to dust.

This is no love poem,
but I wish it was.

Jehona Thaqi© (selfportrait)

Dearest friend

image

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. 

Falling silence

Did you count the times you left me

weeping and sobbing into the cussions,

grabing your arms in order to hold on

to what seemed impossible to keep,

while my body ached and you could hear

the bones cracking, eyes closing,

silence falling.

Did you count the times you left me

helplessly calling your name,

asking you to turn back and hold on

to what seemed impossible to keep,

while your body walked straight out of the room,

feet clicking, doors closing,

silence falling.

Did you count the times you left me

speechless, stuck inbetween thoughts and reality,

I stared at you in order to hold on

to what seemed impossible to keep,

my eyes burning in agony of losing

what was never really mine;

tell me, did you count the times

you left me

bluntly and silent,

you left me

broken and helpless,

you left me

filled with love and sadness

and full of empty hopes.

You left me and I could hear the silence fall upon my ribs,

so unbearably loud

it made me breathe heavily;

so tell me,

did you count the times

you left;

for I have counted all the times

you came back.

Jehona Thaqi©

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]

Dear II

I apologize for the scars upon your skin;
the bruises on your legs make you look clumsy,

I wonder how hard you had to hit

for them to look like small galaxies trying to hide the pain.

I feel bad for your small hands and bleeding knuckles,

but sometimes I can hear the walls cry and shake in fear,

and when your fists meet the concrete

this home weeps for hours.

I wonder how long you will hide your wrists;

for the scars underneath your shirt have led me to your heart,

they were the maps to your soul;

but you are ashamed of the wars you have lost

and you forget that there were victories, too.

I cry when I see you lay still upon the ground,

lifeless and silent;

I wish I could talk to you and say that you are enough,

but I have used up my words for the wrong people;

I wish I could tell you that I love you and all of your scars

but how do I say it, if I have lost my tongue.

Dear self,

I apologize for the scars upon your body;

but whatever you do,

keep breathing

and I’ll breathe with you.

Jehona Thaqi©

Unaddressed

There are letters unwritten,

and written letters unaddressed,

as if I forgot the worth of my very words,

but remembered well the guilt inbetween the spaces of my memories.

Sometimes, when the night draws me into my bed,

I forget how to sleep,

as if in agony of dreaming what will never become;

and when the morning turns bright,

I forget how to stay awake,

for there are dreams I can only fullfill while sleeping.

Today I wrote a letter and started from the end,

for when I reached the beginning there was nothing to write;

you can not undo a dream,

but can you forget the dreams that never were meant.

My name underneath a letter of emptiness,

unaddressed, sometimes;

and sometimes unwritten.

Jehona Thaqi© (the painting: ‘Dreams’, oil on canvas, Jehona Thaqi)