Lost in Translation

Sometimes I worry that all that I feel, what I want to say, and what I actually say is lost in the space between my heart and the words that come out on the page...or just out of my mouth - especially after a glass or two of wine. And then, to make matters worse, there's how the other person interprets the words and body language, through their own lens, experience, past, etc. Do we really hear each other? Can we feel each other, without that scared, protective wall coming up? Without rules and judgments and shame?

I wish we could sit down together and talk...really talk, alone, honestly, without anyone around to shape the words, and with clear heads and hearts to hear and feel what's really said. But will that ever happen?

I wonder what you think of me. Do you think I'm awful, shallow, stupid, silly, untrustworthy? Or do you think I'm deep, complex, caring, and sensitive, but perhaps a bit too ruled by my feelings? It shouldn't matter to me, but it does. Everything matters in your presence. Because all I do is worry that who I am and what I say is lost in translation, along with you. And something inside can't seem to let go. It doesn't matter what is, or what you say, or all the obstacles in the world, or how impossible it all seems, or how insane I feel. 

It scares me.

I feel connection and resistance, connection and resistance...resistance, resistance, confusion, guilt, elation, all at once until it nearly kills me. I fight it sometimes and then just want to laugh it off. And then I say things and worry later that I've hurt you, when that's the last thing I ever want. Perhaps I'm just looking for proof of something. But I'm fully there, taking it all in, laughing and loving and enjoying the moment. And it's all in the moment, being contained... just barely. I enjoy studying you, your complexity, your contradictions, and trying to figure out if there's anything I've lost on my side of the translation. Am I just the dumb girl who doesn't get it? Or doesn't want to? I wonder about the story behind each line in your sweet face and wish you could sit and tell me. If only I could capture your darting chocolate eyes for just a few moments and drink them in as I melt in the midday heat.

I'm so sorry. I wish I could be different. It seems so easy for you. Like in a blink of an eye, swoosh...resistance. It doesn't work that way for me, but maybe someday. Please be patient with me and whatever gets lost in translation between us.

DISCLAIMER: My Code

Here's my code - believe it - it's true

I have no interest in calling you. (No offense, sweetie :)

Ever since I was a teen

from now and back to inbetween

I never did anyone's bidding, not even for myself.

I simply looked pretty and sat on the shelf.

And they would come because they wanted to.

And I was Ms-Loyal-to-My-Man, true blue.

Feelings might come and feelings might go.

And I would put them on paper, you know.

To get them out and not destroy my soul.

So calling you is not my goal.

I hope you would trust me enough by now.

How many times have I shown you how?

Yes, I've struggled, yes, I've stalled.

But count the number of times I've called!

Zip, none, never, nada.

That is a guarantee that I hope you comprada.

Why all the fear? I'll never know.

If I mean so little, just let it go.

I can't help but wonder: why all the fuss?

It sounds like someone is lacking trust.

In themselves and each other - I'm willing to bet.

Otherwise, why would I be such a threat?

I just need some friends. I DON'T want to steal.

I couldn't if I wanted to - that was the deal.

But I express my feelings however I want!

And if your name isn't on it, don't bother to taunt.

Why shiver in fear that I'm going to call?

I do not chase, NO MATTER WHAT - that's all!

I'll sit and look "pretty" for one worthy and brave

Who thinks I'm worth keeping till I'm gone to the grave.

No matter what I write, there's one thing I'm owed.

The right to my feelings. And the right to my code.

Forever Turning

To kiss or not to kiss

The day will soon be gone

To touch or not to touch

The day will become a week, a month, a year

The sun will cast a shadow across our graves

where cold lips and cold hands no longer have the gift to meet

The world doesn't stand still, waiting for us

It's forever turning

As raindrops roll off the leaves

And mangoes ripen on vines

And birds flirt and mate and nest

None of them are measuring their movements

But here I sit,

mourning for the scorched earth that doesn't get rain,

the immature fruit that falls off the tree and dies

I cry for all that is never realized,

lost in the world's turning...

namely us.