The Measure of a Woman

The edge of winter finds me seasoning my guts with lemon, ginger and honey — and a hopeless longing for warm hands, summer sun and wanderlust money.

I can’t stand the cold. I resent being made to shiver and curse at this ridiculous life. By late November, my bones are already struggling to bare the drop in temperature. The imposing shadow of dark December lurking along the horizon — does nothing to ease my mind or soothe my soul.

Today, at 3:30 in the afternoon, I spied a crescent moon above bottle green leaves — against an icy blue sky. Then a pale orange, candyfloss cloud floated on by. All at once, life became sublime like Sunday mornings— and fading hopes began to flutter once again like butterflies.

Within what seemed — just a few blinks of my eyes, darkness had fallen without a single star yet in sight.
I measured the fleeting hope of those moments — and thought of you and I.

Gazing into the sky — feels like getting lost inside the eyes of somebody you love. It’s a vibe. A silent, soulful exchange that cuts through all the noise in the world.

My essence gravitates towards romance and nostalgia, I have always let their scents cling to my skin and take me away like perfume or symphonies. But, resurrection is not my forte in this push and pull existence. I un-break my own heart when I remember to stop wasting the life in my veins — on bad romances that have proven to be nothing but veiled, dead things. Typically, these truths are so forgettable when life and its busyness — suck you in.

I’m as curious about humans and our idiosyncrasies — as I am exhausted by us. Being human is exhausting, especially in a year like this.

Boredom and trying not to fall into the clutches of crippling loneliness — have led to a series of poor decisions and subsequent pointless regrets. Mistakes are more than inconvenient and annoying as fuck, they are signposts that map out a way forward.

Admittedly, I am resistant to apologising to my kids when I wrong them. I assess — they are equally frustrated and gleeful at pointing this flaw out to me. I don’t have a single memory of either of my parents apologising to me for anything — ever. I guess, i’m still having to unlearn that example so that I can practice what was never preached.

I’m more mindful of being too hard on myself than I have ever been. A little better at managing my own expectations, less likely to set myself up with impossible standards for me to fail to meet. Besides, a quest for perfection — is a pot-holed road to hell. I say this with a wry smile after spending an inexcusable amount of time in the shop — opening several boxes of eggs and checking each one to be sure they were not cracked or shit stained. On most days, I see this as good sense. On days like these, the simple task of buying eggs — could be the undoing of me.

My solitude is sweeter than being one of the pack. Even when it becomes sickly sweet, it’s preferable to the bitterness that comes along with the back and forth of loving someone — who refuses to love you back. I maintain that my naked flesh hugs and warms my bones with more affection than loveless arms ever could.

If falling in love is synonymous with coming undone, then I am a woman with an unmarketable area of expertise.

I am yet to master the art of falling in love — without breaking.

Every time I have fallen in love, my acquired notes about love — are torn up and rendered useless like confetti. It begins like some giddy, teenage drunken dream — where I’m trying to stay on my feet and have the time of my life despite the nauseating, nonsensical twists of it all. The details in the middle involve (my) tears, shades of jealousy and rage. As joy turns to sorrow and the dream morphs into a nightmare, I wake up alone — cold sober, heart in pieces as it drips melancholy out onto the floor.

Such a spectacular catastrophe.

But, like the quintessential moth to a flame, I will surely try love at least one more again — and again. I would never claim to be unafraid, it’s my desire to see if I can feel something more, something different from anything I have ever felt before — that pulls me through to the other side of every heartbreak.

If you pour love into me — i’ll multiply it by infinity, although desiring you without the assurance of reciprocity, might just spell the death of me.

I’m not a love poet, but I’ll paint you by words as you colour me in. If you were a poet, would you muse me? Make me the villain or the one that got away? Be as concise on the page as you are to my face with half-truths.
Even after all, beautiful lies — are still lies.
Sweet love — still tastes bitter sweet.
Perhaps you would just edit me out — since you are not obliged to write of me at all.

For now, I am a woman in love — with my bed. I am feigning indifference about the world and it’s mess, whilst becoming my own again.
Filling my lungs with good sleep is key for weary, restless bones — so that darkness is not all that I can see.

You should know by now, I was born to dream.
Unfolding into myself through moments of surrender that unravel me like a timeless mystery.
I am a survivor of terrible times and savage things—
still hoping for mercy for my commitment to sin.
Trying to remain soft whilst doing the hardest things — is the difficult task set before me.

In my golden years — I will be the rebel with a cause. Your grand-aunty sitting on top of a century of living, free to contradict any version of me from my wonder years — whenever necessary.

I am modern love.
I am a variation of the Universe and all of its people.

I am a moment to savour. I am a moment to breathe.