XXLove letters   

 

When you got your first A,

 

We pretended to be antique hunters that prowled through antique stores,

Well-equipped thick horn rimmed four-eyes profit monsters,

We searched for mahogany chests and sideboard cabinets,

We spotted the monarchy treasures,

 We methodically checked a fauteuil a la Louis the Sixteenth,

We inspected the back, the carved details, the fabric,

As a chair the king was perfect,

Nothing was damaged,

Nothing was missed,

He was allowed to rule waiting for floods to sweep his tapisserie kingdom away,

We looked for the answer,

You could or you couldn’t see exactly what I saw,

Under my breath I muttered,

 ‘You wanted to meet a ghost,

Go ahead,

Here we are,

She is somewhere near,

Do you see her?

It’s a ‘who are you’ test,

Where is she?’

‘She sits on the floor near the Empire sofa,

She wears a robe,

I cannot see her face,

She hugs a pillow,

It has medieval motifs,

It is what I can see,

It is too dim to see the details’,

‘It’s one of a kind, Monsieur,

Mademoiselle,

The worming voice was persistent,

 It kept crawling up our backs,

‘It’s a unique piece of the glorious past’,

‘It’s not my style’,

‘We have industrial steel cabinets’,

‘Some other time,

Thank you’,

I didn’t say ‘WOW’ but I was surprised,

I was amazed,

You instantly saw her,

I had never seen her to act like this,

She was lost in the forest of tapered legs,

She sat on the floor like a scared beast,

She wore a printed silk charmeuse robe,

Hugged a medieval toile de jouy pillow,

‘Tonight she has something in mind,

We’ll never know,

She is unusually silent,

The last time I saw her,

She dropped a Limoges plate,

Let leave her alone,

Let’s go,

Bonsoir, Monsieur,

Merci beaucoup, Francoise’.

 

XXLove letters   

 

 

 

When everything told stories,

 

It would have been a museum if only life had played no games,

Exhibits had price tags though,

Every item has its unique bio,

There were no items but people,

All those that had owned them,

Now they were matters of taste,

An evil witch had bewitched them casting a freezing spell,

They might have felt insane and romantic,

The evil witch didn’t like it,

They reminded her how she felt,

She didn’t spawn evil at dawn and daylight,

Only after a clock struck midnight,

She engaged in witchcraft brewing potions, providing antiques for flea market, taking care of haunted shops,

Owners-items became accustomed to a weary daily routine,

Staring eyes,

Groping fingers,

Rushing nowhere shoes,

Seeking destruction beings,

All forms of life trespassed the border,

 They entered the shrine of ageless time,

Women with sad eyes looked for their youth,

They tried to remember how it felt being happy,

They bought happiness belonging to others,

You could easily recognize them,

They wore turquoise heels,

The owner was an old man with foxy shine in his eyes,

His hair receded unlike his family business,

His business thrived,

More clients, more francs,

He pushed successfully his old stuff,

He folded francs in the Rothschild manner,

The owner fussed when he saw a client,

‘Would you take a look for yourself,

We have cheap prices, expensive items,

It’s the best antique shop in Paris,

I have the best provider,

S’il vous plait,

Monsieur, Mademoiselle’,

He rubbed his hands in satisfaction,

If things should last, then money should last,

He talked to his haunted slaves on a daily basis,

About hope, dust and acceptance,

He playfully winked at them,

His eyes flickered like candlelight,

‘Your destiny will find you,

Don’t lose your hope,

Your noses up,

Take a look at brass kettles,

Stay patient, mysterious, proud,

Avoid looking as if you were recent,

 And drive away nasty dust’.

 

XXLove letters   

 

 

 

 

When we trespassed on the Land of The Invisible for the first time,

 

 

 

I threw a glance at the butte,

I felt disorientated,

It had been a long time since I took someone to see Francoise,

No, my feet didn’t lie,

                                      It was Tissus Reine,                                     

They got a lot of business,

Lovers of do-it-yourself had fun to shop here,

They prowled among fabric bolts,

Ribbon, pom-poms, threads,

Through many small fabric stores,

We entered one lost antique shop that travelers didn’t know,

‘It is Montmartre face control, mon ami,

It resists a moth siege like the City of Troy,

Some treasures are eaten into by moths,

There is no collateral loss,

In the untouched naphthalene land of objets decoratifs’,

Being squeezed between the sequined west coast and the ocean of gullible silk,

It worshipped bonnets and tassels,

It lied to the east of polka dots fabrics, black satin,

It had been closely guarded by a wide range of    mermaid statuettes,

We entered the world,

It wasn’t fueled by coffee,

It didn’t recycle breaths,

It didn’t wither in the cubicles of ambitions,

It was filled to the brim with treasures,

 It would have never traded the moon for fluorescent lamps,

Sweet winter music was playing,

The place was euphoric like a holiday garland with blinking lights,

A young woman right in the corner had serious doubts,

About which tea for two set to pick,

The one with a cat or the other with valentine hearts,

Francoise was somewhere near,

She thought ‘Pick out the one with a cat’,

Because as a caring ghost she was obliged to know,

The tea for two set would be a gift for the young lady’s niece,

Valentine hearts would have been a bad choice,

The young woman had no sweetheart, 

The young woman decisively frowned and took the tea cup with a cat,

The ghostly mission wasn’t completed,

This time she stood behind an old lady who was ready to buy horn-handled knives,

‘No, your friend has similar knives,

She has a look alike set,

Madam, don’t be a miser,

What about this French still life,

Or a gorgeous red velvet chair,

Honor your lifetime friendship’,

The old lady reluctantly opened her wallet,

It coughed up quite a few greasy francs.

 

 

XXLove letters   

 

 

 

 

When our heads recited poems written by ghosts,

 

 

When somebody is hungry,

A fresh baguette filled with ham and camembert looks more impressive than Our Lady,

Hunger is a driving force,

It sent us down narrow streets,

Steep steps and pictorial staircases,

We shifted in space a few feet to the left and to the right,

Till we were on our own,

Till we were off the beaten track,

The street was a mixture of  old and new,

Time was less complicated here,

Usually tourists stick to two or three little streets,

Drawing circles around artists,

They stand stoically in long queues,

Accordions and violins serenade passersby,

Reviving a retro feel like in the golden age movies,

After they pay their way to the top of Gustave Eiffel’s wonder,

Exhausted they fall asleep,

They return from a trip,

In the jumble of grey buildings,

They are sure about knowing Paris,

Committing the biggest blunder,

Montmartre isn’t as pink as flamingo plumage,

It is a true woman,

She took something after mermaids,

There is a vague feeling of menace,

Rolling over night cobblestones,

Once she snares you,

There is no breakthrough,

She is a siren,

You are her prisoner willingly framed,

The air was pungent,

It foreshadowed the winter ahead,

A frigid wind blew from the north,

The consummation of autumn,

Your hands went numb,

They escaped from the cold like big snakes,

Like two pythons slithering into the pockets,

‘Shall we come across ghosts from the glorious past?

Would you introduce me to Dali or Baudelaire?’

‘I’m sorry we shall not,

I’ll introduce you to Francoise,

She is a local ghost,

We’re getting closer to her overcrowded with antiques lair,

She is invisible as her ghostly status commands,

Only a few can see her there,

All the rest are ghostly blind,

They walk through her,

Don’t tell me about yourself,

I neither believe nor guess,

I’ll understand what kind of person you are,

You are my future tenant,

Who you are,

I should know’.

 

XXLove letters

 

When nothing was more stubborn than our love,

 

 

You probably thought,

‘She checks me out from head to toe,

She can tell a newcomer one mile away,

She takes a glance at her watch,

She looks at me guessing,

‘Is he a maniac?

No,

Is he an artist seeking cheap rent?’

I stare at her beaming,

She doesn’t trust my broad smile,

I have to wave the white flag,

I don’t understand what she tries to see,

Staring into my soul,

‘It’s around the corners of his mouth,

It’s the well-hidden mockery of the world,

Is he an aspiring writer?

He is a journalist,

Yes!’

After our thoughts stretched out,

They reached  double quotation marks,

It was the first clash of two egos,

We put down the weapons,

Wiping fingerprints off barrels,

We took care of all smocking guns,

We stashed them behind gallantry and good manners,

We dropped the daggers at each other’s feet,

We were two yesterday hippies that did not recognize each other,

Nobody was more evasive than you,

Nothing was more abusive than life,

I said ‘I’m terribly sorry’,

Why is the top of a hill considered to be the best spot?’

I didn’t lie,

Then I lied and I didn’t feel sorry,

‘I didn’t expect such a long queue,

It was a long steep way to the top’,

‘Beautiful women never say ‘sorry’,

‘Sorry’ affects their good looks’,

Paris was dirty,

Parisians were obnoxious,

The police was annoying,

Where was I?

The hill had a view of Paris zinc roofs,

I felt terribly homesick,

The top of the hill is the best spot for martyrdom and sightseeing,

For martyrdom it was early,

The rooster had crowed yet not even once,

You asked me ‘Do you still hurry?’

‘I am still hungry,

What am I saying?

Sorry’,

I should have bitten my tongue,

But the harm had already been done,

That’s why I continued speaking my mind without any sign of worry.

 

XXLove letters

 

 

When it was a rhetoric answer to a rhetoric question,

 

I turned my head like a life-size exorcist doll,

‘I am stupid,

I’m a scatterbrained psycho,

My brain is Swiss cheese,

A living in a spacious cave troll,

It reminds me ‘You forgot blue eye shadows,

They are so in,

I am so thoughtless,

How can he recognize me?

He waits for a red-haired girl,

Who wears a floral sweater and mallow flares,

I’m wearing a warm winter tunic,

It’s windy today,

I’m buried in knee-high boots,

I’m wrapped up in a blue shawl,

When he asked me to describe myself,

I should have changed the topic,

I should have said,

‘I am a red-haired girl,

Whose shoes are always unpaired,

She wears them on the wrong feet,

Her eyes look in the wrong direction,

I would have increased my chance,

I didn’t and now what?  

 He doesn’t know me,

 I don’t know him,

How can he recognize me?’

I was terribly wrong,

Despite my unpreciseness you did,

We know people well only if they don’t match the right description,

I was in the open sea,

At dusk it peacefully snowed,

I stood on the deck wrapped up in twilight,

For the first time I saw the incredible scene,

The sky refused being alone,

Snowflakes were lucent,

Water was attracted to water,

I questioned my eyes,

I felt anxious, excited, exhausted,

I could not understand why,

Misunderstanding was solved,

All questions were answered,

I felt confused and frustrated,

It was such a waste of beauty,

Such a waste of a gift from the sky,

I wanted the drowning snow to become one hundred different things,

I’d love it to be water stains on the sidewalk,

Puddles, slush, dirt and pedestrians’ rage,

Snowmen, snowdrifts, laughter of children,

I’d love it to shape-shift,

But snowflakes disappeared,

Hieroglyphic love verses evaporated,

Happiness is a selfish witch.

 

PS It’s how you looked the first time when I saw you.