Love After Love

Feast on your life Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

– Derek Walcott

sometimes it’s a saturday night

sometimes it's a saturday night

Sometimes it’s Saturday night.

To take that long hot shower.
To shave those legs.
To soak the hair in some strength-inducing formula.
To put that face mask on.

Sometimes it’s a Saturday night.

To drink chaga mushroom tea.
To take a luxurious walk with the dog with no destination or clock ticking.
To have soft 90s music soothing in the background.
To steam up some bone broth.

Sometimes it’s a Saturday night.

To give yourself the luxury of space…
To think, to reflect, to process, to dream.
Oh, what’s to be next!
Wait, savor this moment.

Sometimes it’s a Saturday night.

And suddenly, 10:30pm feels like 1am.
Where does the time go?!
The overwhelm of being alone
Swiftly turns to holding on to this me-time for dear life.

more | less

more | less

More belly laughs

Less over-thinking.

More moments of joy

Less time spent shopping.

More kindness

Less judgements.

More greens

Less plastic.

More salutes to the sun

Less forgetting how you got somewhere.

More tenderness

Less choking.

More trust

Less prediction.

More you

Less smoke and mirrors.


Liza Fernandez

Want more? Try this one.

a curse (not really)

a curse (not really)

Dreamy.
I love you oceans.
She says, not just to me.

It’s hard to hear from her.
It’s like the sting from rubbing alcohol.
Why didn’t I matter?
No return phone call.
No response
No reaction.

Silence.
The worst punishment.
Punishable by death.
And I’m in the chair.

Talented, skinny, sexy, confident, fun, adventurous, a killer IG account.
I know, superficial, but JesusChrist does that count in my brain.
Pride envelopes me.
Fuck you, on heated lips, on repeat.
Thick black ash in my heart.

A curse.

No!
Those things work.
Stop that.
Don’t be a child.

A curse.

I mean it!
God.
What is this, medieval times?

A curse?

Not really.
More like blessings beyond reach, an avalanche.
I do.
I wish you,
the best.
Cuz you’re fuckin’ talented and I love you.
I love you.

holding

holding

I hold a cup of black tea in a Starbucks vintage mug; the tea is not their’s and tastes way better. There’s a chip on the cup. I should dispose of it but I chose not to.

I’m feeling a joyful glee in my heart cuz my partner returns home tomorrow. How four weeks has fast forward and slowed down all at once. I recall his warm soft lips and how they just fit mine.

I sit still as the sun beams down on my skin. It’s warm with a cool breeze reminding us winter is around the corner. The critical mind tells me to pull away (wrinkles, remember), but I don’t. Fly kisses from the sun reach the smile spreading across my cheeks.

I’m wondering if this is what they mean by “bliss”. This moment. On my own.
That hop-skip-and-a-jump feeling, that “skip to my lou my darling” pep to the step.
I try not to choke it; surrendering is a joy ride.

I sip.
Eyes closed.
Fly kisses to the sun and back.
Smiling.