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 ©

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An open letter

I sit silently upon our bed
the clock ticking  in the corner of our room,
birds twittering to the melody of a late summer evening
and while the last sunrays enter our small house
I think of your soft hands and mellow lips;
I think of how you used to hold my jaw
as if it was the greatest you have ever held.

Time passes; the clock still ticking,
until its sound diminishes within the blurred pictures of my mind,
skies turn grey and birds fall silent
and I sit there, dry eyes and empty heart,
I sit in order to remember
how you said love would never be forgotten
and how quickly you forgot to call it love.

Sometimes I do not know why I write letters to you
again and again,
unread stories and untold secrets,
floating within the space of your fingers and my desk.

Maybe one day you will have the time to read
what has taken me too long to witness.

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]

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. 

Impressions of Zurich

Eventhough I was born and raised in a small city near Zurich, I profoundly enjoy taking photographs of the beautiful corners of this quiet place. Zurich is one of the most amazing places I have ever been to; everything seems to be perfectly arranged, with little twists of flaws and imperfections.

As you walk across the Quai-bridge – the wind softly humming into your ears; you will fall in love with the small boats and the turquoise sea. To make the view even greater your eyes will soon capture the amazing buildings at the beginning of the most expensive district in Zurich. I am overly obsessed with the architecture within this city! 

Walking across these streets each day makes me sometimes forget to see the beauty within them. I have to remind myself how overly privileged I am to be living in this country, especially here in Zurich. As the child of two immigrants, who flew from poverty and political instabilities, I feel a strong connection towards this place. It has been the place that gave my parents the opportunity to live – in its full meaning, and gave me the opportunity to educate myself.

This city has made me grow, maybe it is a further reason of why I love it so much.

One of the sweetest things in Zurich are the trams in the center of the city. No cars, no buses, no trains, only the trams that will surely bring you to the right place at the right time. And yes; Swiss people are extremely punctual.

But there is another thing that I strongly admire about this city: art. Where ever your eyes wander, I am sure that they will capture art in a variety of forms. Maybe one day I will be part of the displayed art in this wonderful city.

Have you ever been to Zurich? And if so, what is your greatest memory of it?

Jehona Thaqi© all rights reserved

Bitter

Sweet words have taught me

that they love to lie,

that their magic lies within their deceitful reality.

Sweet tongues have taught me

that they lie to make you love,

that they will play weak for you to kiss them,

that they will swallow your hearts, if you offer them your hands.

Sweet mouths have taught me

that you will not forget their taste,

that no matter how often you try to forget, there will always remain a scent

of the sweetness you have tasted on the rainy days.

Sweet eyes have taught me

that the tears within them are flooded with lies,

that you will drown eventually and forget how to swim,

for you will swim alone, within your broken soul.

How bitter it is,

to swallow myself,

in order to remember the sweet taste

of you.

Jehona Thaqi©

Roses

image

Today I passed by a flowershop
as colorfull as my ancient soul,
but my eyes were fixed
on a bucket of white roses.
White roses upon the dust
of a graveyard never visited,
flakes of snow covering their petals
pressing them against the dead bodies.
Dead bodies, dead spirits,
eyes that will never again see,
hands that will not touch nor feel,
mouths that won’t speak, that won’t whisper.
What if I bought those roses
and laid them on my ribs,
will they give life to the dead heart
I am carrying around?
Or will they die, like roses upon graves?

Jehona Thaqi ©

Melancholy

image

Oh, these streets
filled with melancholy sadness,
humming the sound of
broken souls.
Oh, within these streets,
where the skies explode
and the people turn grey,
here I have found myself.
Oh, within these streets
did my heart find rest,
did my eyes find a place
worth crying for.
And if tomorrow nothing matters anymore,
here will I stay until the days turn to dust.

Jehona Thaqi©

Repetition

image

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 ©