Tarentino Girl

It’s been just over a year since I’ve become friends with this wonderful, kind and talented Belgian. I will never forget those first emails we exchanged and so for this year I’ve made a black out poem from the very first ones you sent me. Who knew there was poetry to be found in them?

(I haven’t changed any typos/text in any way)

This poem touches on the hope I meet you someday, the comforting words you’ve offered and things I have learned.

Happy birthday, Elisa. Pigeon and friend.

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myspilledmemories – A forgotten poem


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March 9, 2020 · 10:27 PM


I’m not sure what these words are about anymore. I’ve gone through all the old pages, the ones that are wet and wrinkling at the edges. The words in them cast memories, echoes of them at the very least, texured like sand on a beach that I can brush my hand over and feel the grains which dot these slowly fading images. They lie so idle on some imaginary shoreline where the waves so diligently take away pieces of them. I wonder where all those pieces go, and how much they’ve reshaped my recollections. At the end, I fear that it will be nothing but worn out monoliths of memory that stand at the edge, slowly sinking beneath the waterline. Is there nothing but water we are left with?

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The Week

What stretches out before me seems to have the appearance and texture of shadow.
However, there does not seem to be an end to this dark and ghastly shape, in fact it does not seem to have any shape at all. All I know is that it is dark and brooding and seems to enjoy looming in the way.

I think I’ll call this manifestation, “The Week”. I know its existence is literally endless since by definition it is supposed to repeat over and over again, like it always has, sapping away at the souls of those silly enough to grow up(there are many of us) but still it’s existence and appearance does put a dampner on one’s spirits as if the previous encounters with it were any different.

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Pigeon Fever

Happy B’day Elisa 🐦(I may have taken some artisic liberties with this piece) 


(Had to edit this with a picture since WordPress was unable to capture the structure I was going for)


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I’m Cold

The ice stares back at me

As I look into my drink.

Too cold for today,

But I’m having it nonetheless,

Because it’s woken me up,

As the cold always has

with it sharpness and rudeness,

a shiver across my skin.

I look up.

There is no one here I know,

but people much warmer than me.

They must be thick skinned or something,

Or maybe it’s just me.

I look back into my drink,

The ice stares back at me.

smaller now,


Just like me,

Just like me.


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I haven’t posted here in a while. Let’s see how this goes.  

I now long for days where the shadows grow longer and the worst of the weather can be shielded away by copious amounts of layers.

I’ve grown fond of the cold, maybe it’s the dire heat of the days I walk in today but I also believe in a new warmth that has awakened within me. It is a quiet and temperate heat that has begun to accompany me ever since I met you. I’ve found comfort in this warmth.

I look forward to days where the wind will be less harsh and caress us instead with a cold that is kind. Yes, I know the days will grow shorter and night will be upon us much quicker, surprising us in a way that doesn’t make any sense as every year it is the very same. I’m not sure if it’s just me but I will never get used to way the sun dips beneath the horizon sooner or later as the year goes by but the darkness will do for there is always so much light in this city and just as much radiance in you.

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Gentle Giants

What soft shapes they were,
gentle giants and wistful wisps,
marching solemly across the sky.
Where are they voyaging?
They seem unpetrubed by such a question,
The sky calls them on,
The colors are deepening,
First a pale gold and then the softest pink,
A blossoming red will soon follow
And out of nowhere a darkness,
And I fear my words will run out then.
But I’ll hear you quietly sigh,
Making me realize that enough has been said.

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I see it now,
it stands afloat a blue that calls upon our longing
it’s as if someone placed a piece of land
atop an exotic cocktail.
But the smell of salt gives up this illusion,
There are no ethanol vapors here, no spirits
except our own.
There she is,
Lonesome yet bustling,
There is life here,
But quiet and considerate.
Cohen lived here you know,
he fell in love and wrote on love here,
I think the waters still hold his words.
I picture him staring out across a windowsill,
Wondering about this ship that approaches,
Did he foresee us as ghosts?
Gosh, what a fright we must have given him,
Scared him half to dead did we.
Hydra, there it is
How long has it stood there,
among waves, among wars
And now among us.

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Setting Sail

Tonight I want to write my heart away for it is heavy with words. Not in the romantic love sodden manner I often do, although I’m quite sure it’ll find it’s way to manifest in some shape or form. Tonight I write my heart away as if I’m setting sail in the dusk. I cannot see the horizon but I glance across in the direction it’s supposed to be and I am waiting for that silver of Sun so I can push away from the shore.

Beneath the floorboards of the vessel I sit in there’s countless treasures I’ve collected across the years. They are bottled and canned, a bit dusty and dented at the edges but the memories they contain are wholesome still. For how can such wonderful moments decay? My only fear is that if the bottles are to crack or the cans were to split open, would these memories rise up and get lost among the stars?

Oh, what would I do then? I suppose I will spend my entire voyage chasing them down. I will pick out the stars that shine brightest and believe that it is a memory that makes it shine so. For there is no other reason, no destination in store for me and I will leave my fate to the stars like an explorer of the past.

There I see it now, that unmistakable glow of  a new day.

I must go.

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