of course

so typical

the image of her

the flash of her

its always the painted skin

his eyes are always deceived

he never learns i guess

it will always be

her without a heart

her who is wild

he who remains a child

chooses like one

they don’t love like me

but oh well

he never learns

never stops

loving painted lies

painted ladies

i never wore a mask

and fell for yours

as you fell for hers

keep falling

without me

-melanie ann

Soulmates? (Repost)




— Read on myspirals.com/blog/soulmates/

A NEW FAVORITE by My Spirals


I had this concept of story telling – palm reading mix for a long time and here it is. I hope you like it!

I met a palm reader once
who convinced me to let him tell me my story.
His readings weren’t conventional –
he came up with stories of past lives
by reading the calligraphy on our hands.
Mukkadar used to be a storyteller but the people
needed some catch to sit for a story,
so he chose this unconventional palm-reading.

He looked at my hand and offered me tea
along with a few choices.
“We’re going to be here for a while,”
he said, “I’ve got plenty of stories for you,
what’s your first pick?”
I was confused, so I chose the love story.
We do that sometimes.
Choose love as the last resort.
“You see this stroke right here,
it’s called the heart-line. It’s the number you dial
for all your love stories. Here you go.

You called her Swans,
the girl you dated in your past life,
because you were each other’s for life.
You met here in high school, ninth grade, 1948.
She liked mountains and you liked beaches,
so you decided California would be home.
On your 22nd birthday, she gave you a 10-paged notebook titled All yours.
filled with lipstick kisses of different shades.
Swans grew up to become an art teacher,
you started fixing cars. But in bed, you drew the race tracks on her skin
and she drove her heart on your arms.
It was a happy story for the most part,
because Swans knew how to talk till things were okay.
The calamity was that you died when you were 60,
with Amnesia and two words on your lips
“Swans. Home.”
The tragedy was that she died in your arms.
Swans died in her home.
That was intense! Now, what’s next?”

Mukkadar left me speechless,
not just by his storytelling
but by the uncanny resemblance of Swans
to the girl who used her own broken heart pieces
as bandages
to heal me last night.