the last love # love poem #poetry

I eat macaroons in the same coffee shop
Roberto’s guitar sells cheap dreams by the sea
young girls are ready for harvest like flowers of lust
I laugh…
I scratch poetry on a glass
I say the first love is French
you ask how’s the last
it smells raspberries, vanilla, and grass
you touch my left wrist
I play a few cards
red flowers bloom on your cheeks
your teeth peel the skin of my gloves
you walk into darkness
I seal you in wax
how’s the last love?
pray..
you shouldn’t have asked

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

 

Love in Venice #short prose #flash fiction

“Would you like to remain in Venice forever?”

I bite my lips.

“Oh, no, but I would love to live here for an entire winter.”

“And what would you do?”

“Every night I will walk in Piazza San Marco, at that moment when the silence becomes so permeable that my steps can be heard from the moon. In the heated, mysterious, thrilling nights of the carnival I will change mask after mask, dress after dress, smile after smile, pain after pain, lover after lover. Every morning I will mix essences of perfumes, seeking for the very one that can revive the mystique of my body, intoxicate my soul, empower my mind. Every twilight I will dive in the coolness of the Adriatic Sea; my body shivering, my soul revived; my memory of him forever gone. In the night I will go to consult astrologer after astrologer in the less known quarters of the city.”

I stop.

The sound of a church bell tears apart the moist air.

He looks at me: blue eyes, dark hair; powerful voice.

“Tonight there is party at the Doge’s Palace. Would you like to come with me?”

“I am not going to parties anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I died long time ago, by mistake. Now I am just a Venetian mask.”

For a moment he looks flabbergasted.
….

excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Mohammadreza Zeidabadi; Shutterstock; [link]

 

the biblical sense of to know #poem #poems

the biblical sense of to know
born in a summer that never existed
nailed to the cross of your poems
I’m losing my mind inside the blue night
I reach you in dreams you do not understand
It hurts when I’m there
It hurts when I’m not
I ask for the help gravediggers can grant
I wrote I love you on a note that I locked
It wasn’t a snake, it was an iguana
the night the tango nuevo played its guitar
on fifteen decades you counted your prayers
my fingers were naked
my fingers were gloved

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: agsandrew; Shutterstock; [link]

 

the kiss of no return #poem #poetry

pain is dripping from guitars
into sunsets with no end
pigeons guide ships lost at sea
tears drop from plumy skies

oh, how your fingers touch the chords
how my heart swells at your sight
how your kisses burn my neck
how the mountain splits
the sky

listen,
to the night of oleanders
to the magic of the key which turns
take me to the kiss of no return
when the sky is turning blue
and we’re centuries apart
let me kneel
in front of you

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: nodff; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Fires of the mind #short prose #flash fiction #prose poem

First, one’s mind catered to the other.

Then they started praying upon each other’s art: one’s imagination crawling on and playing with the other’s like two lion cubs frolicking on Africa’s grasslands.

By the time physical love came into play, they were already burning like two pieces of glass in a Murano furnace.

In the end, a lonely man found a mound of shattered glass on a back alley.

It would have been much easier if they would have kept their art separate.

Yet they didn’t.

Excerpt from the manuscript Passion: Love Poems and Other Writings

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: Sandratsky Dmitriy; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Destinies #short prose #flash fiction #amwriting

Our destinies caught inside the lines of my left palm.

With my right index finger, I trace those lines again and again, until I cannot breathe anymore, until my left palm bleeds.

None of us can be judged outside endless flights between continents, outside of our tears and of our love for art, outside of the slippery slope that runs from amitié amoureuse to deep impassioned love.

One day all of us will have to understand that the past should stay in the past.

That day is inscribed in my left palm together with our pain, and our tendencies toward the kind of love that transcends earthly boundaries.

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers 

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image: agsandrew; Shutterstock; [link]

 

my poem “Initiation” up to Vita Brevis Poetry Magazine #poem #published

deification of the virgin nymph
within my palms
the flesh of violet sunsets flips like fish on land
my eyes, inheritors of light
singular sinkholes punctuating a low sky
your love…
continue reading with WP here
or
on Vita Brevis Press here.

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image: Everett – Art; Shutterstock; [link]

 

In the shadows of those streets #short prose #flash fiction

I lurked in the shadows of those streets the entire night: solitaries, madmen, prostitutes, somnambulists. After a while I couldn’t distinguish among them.

My steps were meaningless. My senses were tranquilized by that vision of him scribbling his last letter to me under a pale winter moon. The child was probably happy, playing at his feet. It wasn’t his child, but…

The beat of the streets became one with the unstoppable movements of his heart in my own chest. He left his love to me like some kind of inheritance.

Why retreat alone with the child on a remote island?

Afterall the city did not do more than compromise the least part of him: his ego.

Blood is dateless. The ego is not. Which part did he not understand?

 

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image:  Dmytro Vietrov; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Art #short prose #prose poem

He hunted for reasons upon which he could build his resolutions.

He hunted in the wrong place for art is not the space of reason, nor is a ratio of whole numbers.

Art is the space in which the profane lays so close to the divine that one would rather find room to breathe through the eye of a needle than to separate the two.

And so is love.

@short-prose-fiction(Gabriela M)

image:  Hare Krishna; Shutterstock; [link]