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

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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 were never meant.

My name underneath a letter of emptiness,

unaddressed, sometimes;

and sometimes unwritten.

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

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©

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 am sorry

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I am sorry dearest,
for not enough words,
or too many of them.

I am sorry I burned your heart
while spitting fire with my sharp speech
you seemed so calm,
until you, too, eventually caught fire.

I am sorry for not being woman enough to stay silent,
for crying aloud and seeking help,
for talking about my pain,
for speaking and speaking and speaking.

I am sorry for the lies, my dear,
I am sorry I blamed insomnia for the sleepless nights,
and hormones for eating at two o’clock in the morning,
while it was all me.

I am sorry I am not much of a woman,
or the woman you thought I’d be.
Quiet and lovely and soft as a sheep.
I am sorry I am not much of a woman,
and less of a man, and nothing inbetween.

But, oh darling, if you only knew
the silence of my heart and mind,
when I lay my head upon your chest.

You’d know how much of a human I am.

Jehona Thaqi©

Words unsaid

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She regerets it now;
having left everything unsaid.
Her heart cracks by the mere thought
of how her world could have become if she had said
‘stay’.

He watched the city disappear
in the dust of what seemed to be the last memory of happiness.
If only she had said something.
If only he had been stronger than his pride.

And both at other sides of this world
but the same amount of suffering,
watched their worlds turn gray.

Jehona Thaqi ©

L’amour

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High above Paris,
holding tight to the arms that held me
whenever I thought that holding on meant weakness,
to the arms that said
stay
without words.

The city of love
and its mellow talk, its sweet scent of crêpes
on every corner of its streets.
The cafés filled with beautiful people,
melodramatic music,
glasses of wine, always left half full.

A city of love,
because of its calm and tender kisses,
roses and chocolate,
and everything so soft, so lovely.

And here I am,
high above Paris,
holding tight to these arms, to a love so raw,
so cruel at times.
Maybe I never understood the idea of love,
maybe I never will.

L’amour has broken me in places I never knew existed
and healed scars I thought would remain forever.
But it was never easy,
it was never Paris.

Jehona Thaqi © All rights reserved

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

Hope

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Somewhere inbetween her soft voice
and angelic laughter,
within her blushing cheeks, as tender and sweet as strawberries freshly plucked out of grandmother’s garden,
in the depth of her eyes in which men got lost like desperate love-letters adressed to the wrong person.
There, within that magical and bruised heart, she had handed out too often,
there lied that childish hope
of eternal love.
She clinged to it through every heart-break,
through tears, shatters and scars,
and yet she smiled,
because she knew that
her heart was soft enough to love again,
and strong enough to fall again.

Jehona Thaqi © if only men knew how strong women are