To the Other Woman’s Other Woman
she savors the taste of love
new promises whispering whimsically
aching for more.
more
more
and then some
gorging herself on lies.
she hasn’t noticed yet
the drifter in his eyes
or the smokescreen
that cages his gypsy heart.
she hasn’t noticed yet
that she is me.
© Nathalie M. Viorato
Between Silences
Between silences
the world comes to an end
and there is no commotion
no tempest brewing in the sea
no notice
and people remain people
as the wind stands still
crying themselves to sleep
breaking marriages
being wed
breathing
dancing
laughing
binding ourselves to the menial vocabulary
of the living
promising love
flirting
lying
and no note is made of this
no map left behind
to navigate the aching void left
when the noise stops
no hidden trails to mark
the pathways of apologies
and second chances
nothing
but the stinging echo of quiet
and the bitter aftertaste of “I love you’s”
that you should have said but didn’t
and as the world ends
we watch, mournful observers
to our self-inflicted wounds
squirming in our guilt
because we said the things we wanted to
but never the things we meant
so here… now
I confess to you
that we used to say so much
but never enough
between silences
© Nathalie M. Viorato
Of Mornings and Weekdays
on mondays
I like to listen to music on the train
its always the same-song
the one you dedicated to me
(without knowing of course)
its always the same voice blaring through
vocalizing unhinged thoughts
of desperation and lust
the words always leave me breathless
- in the constricted, can’t breathe
running out of oxygen type of way-
you know the type of breathing that hurts
but like all proud masochists
I am glued to the fire that burns me
like a deaf child hearing his mother’s voice
for the first time
enticed by the velvety smoothness of her sound
overwhelmed by the brevity of moving lips
analyzing the fragility of a whisper
I realize now
that some things are delicate
only to be handled with care
but I rarely ever do
so my trembling hands caress the edges
of hard plastic-frantically-
searching for the delete key
and then I remember that you also like to do that
-erase the things you don’t need anymore-
on mondays
I remember…you can’t always get what you want
© Nathalie M. Viorato
Of Privileges
I wrote this for you
because you once asked me if you were
privileged enough to be in my writings
and it made me laugh
- the only other option
was to cry-
So I answered maybe, enthralled by your ignorance
and also the inner workings of my own mind
I wondered what childhood trauma
defined the type I let into my inner circle
how my brain churns and grunts as it
cleaves the faces of strangers I meet into
categories
so effortlessly
so automatic
like a soldier in Auschwitz
left line, right line
important. unimportant
because clearly there is something wrong with it
My brain that is - and its perpetual cycle of
attaching itself to things that are toxic to its nature
The last person it laid its roots on
incinerated it with pretense and apostasy
commensalism- scientists would call it
parasitic- I would say
The man did nothing for my writing
I was too drunk on betrayal for clarity
my brain too strung out on the leftovers
of infatuation
not so - the second time
desolation makes the brain weak
the words bleed onto the page-
a necessary instinct for survival
Yes- I wrote him a song or two
but you
I wrote you a book
© Nathalie M. Viorato
