Literaryspill

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

To the Other Woman’s Other Woman

she savors the taste of love

new promises whispering whimsically

aching for 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.

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

You act as though I am easy to forget
But you don’t know how-
You don’t know how to erase me
from your background
How to leave behind a good woman-
and her broken heart.
And you move forward- sharing music,
listening to your bands
talking about nothing
pretending to understand each other-
but at night, when you go to bed with her
Realize

You are all alone.

You are all alone.

© 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-

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

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

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

Of First Times

The first time- is always the hardest

you trace your fingers along every ridge

letting the feel of cold hard glass fill you with anticipation

you run your tongue slowly against the roof of your mouth

savoring the burn

you taste the sugar in the air

and find the ice crystals carelessly rolling off your lips

Like the first time a boy reaches for your hand

His fingers interlacing with your own ..slowly…discretely

Closer and closer

Breaking you into intimacy

until he discovers everything that you have inside

until he knows he can melt you with his touch -

the hard red liquid does nothing to quench your thirst that first time

or tame the spreading numbness in your chest

the same thirst you had when you woke up alone

greeted by the sun and empty caresses in a blood-stained bed

Yes- the first time is always the scariest

you ease into it…slowly at first…but then faster and faster

reaching for another then another

until the confusion of your moist pink lips forget the taste

of anothers lingering tongue

the first time- is always divine.