Privileged tears

The weather has been good, lately,
you say,
while the shy sun enters our home,
frankly, the weather has been good,
but so have we, for the last few years,
and I say years,
for I do not remember the last tear you have shed.

You leave for work,
kissing me goodbye, like within the movies, swiftly, yet lovely,
and I watch you leave as the sun rises,
until you disapear within the bright light of this morning.

The weather has been good, lately,
I think,
while washing the dishes,
and so have we, for the last few years,
yes, years,
for I do not remember the last time you cried.

Tears fall down the sink,
I like to call them my privileged tears;
the weather has been good, lately,
and there is nothing to worry about,
we have been good, too,
for you have not cried in years,
and I have neither,
only on mornings that shone too brightly
against the façade of our home.

Jehona Thaqi©

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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 ©

Notes on leaving

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We were sitting on the back of the taxi,
my hands pressed against yours,
snowflakes drifting to the ground,
as if to make my leaving easier,
as if to say you will come again with spring.

I watched you, your vivid smile
and tired eyes.
I regret not having taken a picture of you that night,
the sadness on your face made you look different, but beautiful.

These familiar roads,
the burning lights at each corner of this young night,
people laughing, loving birds fluttering against the snow.

I felt the urge to scream no.
I wanted to say ‘keep me here, don’t make me leave’.
But as everything important in life stays unsaid, I remained silent.
And the taxi drove us to the place our hands parted;
to the place our hands will meet again
when the snow is gone.
And we will plant seeds of love in the cracks of our skin.

Jehona Thaqi © notes, thoughts and everything my fingers could not leave unwritten

If not today

If not today

will you ever see the beauty

in breaking hearts and growing hopes,

will you recognize the eyes of your lovers

underneath the haze of a full-moon’s night,

will you witness the movement of lustfull mouths

and hungry teeth.

I watch you sleep, hands pressed against each other,

angelic face, pale skin, 

you seem weaker at night;

for you lose your weapons,

tounges tied and fists softened.

Today

you called me insane for the way I love,

but have you forgotten that there is nothing sane about loving until you burst,

have you forgotten the letters I have written,

all threehundredandeightynine,

have you forgotten my shaking body on the ground,

have you forgotten yourself, walking away with anger in your face;

you say I am insane, 

but is there sanity in hurting what has not meant to be hurt.

I watch you sleep,

for it makes me think that you are fine,

and it makes me believe that I am fine, too;

your eyes closed, your mouth silent,

I forget the words you screamed and the names you called me,

you look inocent and lovely.

I wonder,

if not today,

will you ever see beyond the body that holds me,

will you understand the roots of my words

and the meaning of my silence.

If not today,

will you ever love,

insanely and honest,

and will you heal

what you broke

within me.

Jehona Thaqi©

Cigarette

Today I smoked a cigarette,

the one you used to smoke when your heart was aching,

hoping that it would calm my heart, too;

but the poison filled my lungs and I coughed and grasped for air,

lost within the smoke of my very first cigarette.

I pressed it softly against my small lips,

and in agony of breaking it, I inhaled slowly;

I did not know how to hold it,

just like I never knew how to hold your hands,

maybe I should not have held you too tightly, 

I think today, 

while smoking my very first cigarette.

At the end of it, it does not taste too bad,

the slight burning at the end of my throat feels familiar,

just like your words,

or the lack of them,

for even now, I do not know which was worse,

when you did not talk and left me restless at night,

or when your words burried my tongue and left me speechless.

My very first cigarette comes to an end,

and I watch the sun set underneath the clouds,

sad and lonely I shut my eyes,

how good it would be if you remembered me,

the way you never forget your cigarette.

Jehona Thaqi©

I took this picture from my kitchen window, in sad and lonely hours. Loneliness can be a devastating war inbetween the heart and mind of an individual. 

A little chaotic

This is my writing of imperfections and flaws,
probably the one that will go unnoticed,
the one that will hide somewhere inbetween these pages;
but if you believe in the truth,
then this will be the closest to it you have ever been,
for this is the truest I have ever intended to write
and I swear, upon whatever you believe,
that my heart will hold witness of these words
for as long as it beats.

I will not promise eternity, my love,
as I can not promise what is not in our hands,
but I have given to you my very presence,
I have said yes each day of our journey,
through each heartbreak and through tears,
through rough days of yelling and screaming,
to the quiet days of grieving together.

I have said yes when you were far,
when miles were separating merely our bodies,
for souls can not be separated through distance.
I have said yes when your heart was still insecure,
when your love was stumbling upon options,
when you were yet not quiet sure about anything.

I can not promise eternity, my love,
for I do not understand eternity,
it is too far from my horizon, too distant for my small hands to reach,
but I promise you my presence and all it holds.
If I could, I would alter my self to be the woman of your dreams,
I would prevent you from the sadness this world offers,
and I would protect you from all evil.

You see, our love is a little chaotic,
but I will say yes to it, over and over again,
for it is the most wonderful chaos within my ordinary life.

Jehona Thaqi  ©

Ghost city

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City of ghosts
where the visitors are leaving, but leaving no marks,
dancing around these streets,
nourishing their empty stomachs with love.
This city is left hungry, yet not starving.

Suddenly there are no vistors at all;
like forgotten grave yards
somewhere inbetween the hills of empty lands
the street lamps flicker against the softly shinig moon.

A ghost city,
heart of mine,
forgotten,
yet untouched.

Jehona Thaqi©

Dust

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I walked through these streets
full of unkown faces
with stories hidden underneath the veil of this evening’s dust.

I cleared my eyes,
as the colours seemed fading from the surface of everything
I looked at.
Maybe, I thought, it is the dust layered upon my eyes.

People stared at me,
as if they had never seen someone weep,
as if I was guilty for feeling sorrow.

I walked through these streets
full of unkown faces
and hungry souls, wondering how to feed their stomach with gossip and heavy words.

These streets are so full
of unkown faces,
but empty hearts.

Jehona Thaqi © I will still cry my heart out if I need to

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

Light

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With light comes truth, they said,
deeply moved by a metaphor
stained with dark shadows.

I have found the truth in darkness,
just before the dawn arrives and
the dew starts falling drop after drop
onto this earth.
In darkness I learned how to
use my tongue properly,
how to see through the walls in front of people’s hearts,
how to distinguish the truth in their statements and
how to touch their souls without leaving fingerprints.
It wasn’t the light which made me see,
rather the comfort of darkness in which the heart finds rest.

With light comes truth, they said.
With light come shadows, I say,
looking for raw souls inbetween the last sunrays and the first twittering of birds in the mornings.

Jehona Thaqi©