The Voices Behind the Curtain
once in a while,
we roll tongue against skin
and skin against teeth
and it is not all, show
primitive sounds escape
revealing, a life’s worth of
hidden auroras and clear
summer skies
and we think we are
together in our loneliness,
reveling in mutual emptiness
mouth muscles contract
pouring out fear after fear
doubt after truth,
deviating from our daily scripts
my voice screamed for compassion
but your ears could not take in
the sound of humanity
© Nathalie M. Viorato
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
The Dirt Beneath the Snow
Even if the snow falls.
Covering the soft green earth
with its ashen dust,
altering the ground.
The earth fights back.
Always evolving.
Never devastating.
Even if you come back to me
I won’t.
I won’t.
©Nathalie M. Viorato
The Memory of Rain
the rain is warm now.
I can feel it
wet, sharp
like acid trickling down
frail, unprotected skin
sliding into my eyes;
every tear cries for you,
every tear burns.
©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
Consider Blasphemy
Consider blasphemy-
before you condemn me to
the waters of your solitude
and send me unprotected
into the high tide of your stormy sea
do I mean so little to you-
that you would desecrate all we had
without a moments hesitation?
hurl my name among the piles of
strangers that rummage solemnly
along the outskirts of your mind
without a second glance?
if ever you doubted me-
consider this a reason
for my attitude of neglect
the result of you casting me aside
so disposable was I?
that you failed to notice the beauty
in imperfection
as I did
when I witnessed the darker side
of a good man
constantly reminding myself that
a picture can tell a thousand lies
cursing the root of insecurity
unearthing forgiveness for sacrilege-
your act of erasing me so easily
you did not fight for the rarity
that we once were
instead you hid
behind irreverent actions
the ones I thought to be deceptive
but which I now
Consider truth-
© 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
Of Good Days
On a good day- you can barely
hear the echoes of a million feet
marching solemnly into their cages
pacing past slabs of grey concrete
darting in between yellow blurs
and fragile skyscrapping glass
barely scratching the surface of the sky
You can walk on worn out asphalt
and miss the cracks on paper thin walls
listen- to hard jazz emanating from Battery Park
and not be disturbed by the whispers
of the homeless man
around the corner
with a sign that reads- today is a beautiful day-
Down by the MET, you can sketch a portrait
of a man and a woman-
cradling one another in each others arms
and leave out the hungry desperation in their eyes
outline the skeleton of hard hands and soft fingers
almost grazing each other-but not quite
and miss the stifling air that resides
between two inches of space
you can trace the curvature of their lips
heavy with truth that they wont speak
-we were also having a good day-
a good day today- the homeless man is gone
lost among the trails of the forgotten and
the silent pleas of humanity
and you are not thinking of me
but you are content
and- I am writing you
keeping track of History
reliving the last good day we had
on a good day, it’s a tragedy
©Nathalie M. Viorato
Amor a la Escritura
Ven y te cuento un secreto aqui entre los dos
De mi amante en secreto, muy amargo y muy veloz
Y quisa sea la desgracia de mi triste corazon
es cobarde, orgulloso y detalla sin razon
Grita a los cuatro vientos mil detalles de mi dolor
Pues en su rebeldia pierde todo el control
Su tinte habla de tragedias
de verguenza y de placer
Marchita esperanzas
la noche y el ayer
Y es muy tracionero aunque siempre ha sido fiel
Pues en mi mente dice algo y luego otra al papel
Pero lo perdono pues la relacion es entre dos
y como reclamarle si hasta el silencio tiene voz
© Nathalie M. Viorato
