The Day the Ocean Turned Purple in Paris

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Amanda Blake, When The Sea Turned To Purple


I am more careful with my emotions these days. I block them easily.
I blocked you from my life because I didn't want to entertain the sadness that always lingered over us. I hang pictures in my apartment these days. I am content with doing, not feeling, not writing, not thinking. Tango is in the backburner for now. But Di Sarli sometimes steals my soul.
If I could only order things. Who was, who isn't anymore. All these suppressed ideas I have. Feelings that have been purposefully forgotten because if not my soul would still be bleeding. I had to give it time. Time to have all the blood come out. Time to dry all the blood.

My heart asks me questions. My heart doesn't know answers. Doesn't feel a thing anymore. The thick skin that grew in my heart. It protects me. My back is heavy. I don't think about your kisses anymore. The hotel was empty and white. Dark stairs that took me somewhere. Being there was enough. We never talked about love and yet you felt me. You had me in your mouth. For some time I was your Helen of Troy and you were my Paris. Confusion strikes into the picture. It's my fault I think. That lipstick I wore. Or was the music I shared. Not being sure is part of my being. Being ambivalent is my permanent state. I envied him, he could write so well in the train that brought us back to Madrid. I folded the map that took me to you. I left it in one of the many drawers hidden in my bedroom. I hung stars in my eyes so you could see me shining in the darkness of your so perfect bedroom.

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