London Heat


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‘You were supposed to be married, with six kids, discovering all your theories before your wedding day were wrong’

That’s what Lady Destiny whispered at the early Monday hours before the sound of the alarm and I jumped out of bed, panicked, questioning if the voice was real or just the tension of the past days has taken over the remaining common sense left.

It’s only 5:45am and it’s already hot. In London! Can you imagine? It reminds me of Athens, of another life. Of Coraline and her attempt to take away every summer glimpse I have collected over the years and leave me only with blue-painted toe nails and the memory of him.

I shake my head, I shake the idea of going that far back. The kettle is ready and I think, whilst pouring almond milk in the coffee, what if Lady Destiny was right?

Maybe Amber from Llandudno is married to the man who was supposed to be mine and they already have five kids. And he is somewhere, under the same sky with red clouds at sunset, with espresso martini in hand, thinking if having a sixth child will give him what he is missing in life because I am not around?

Or maybe I eventually have to accept that disappointment is another protracted word that comes with five thousand emotions I can’t save or deduct that easily. And neither is Ben, despite his battle to win over the endorsement of the titans. Maybe I have to accept that I can’t become a lecturer before I learn the secret ways of life insurance and how to stop wasting my time and efforts on lost causes.

And I can’t help it but feel how right Roel was telling me I should learn Portuguese instead of Spanish as there would be time when I will need it. But as usual I ran away from him, from the advice, from the part where we take the next step…

I guess if I stayed and had six kids wouldn’t really matter what my daily step count is, how many sit ups I can do before there is a convulsive pain in the oblique muscles, how long I can endure the burning from the weight …

The point is, I can survive, the agony, the intensity, the dishonesty, the extended hours reading business taxation books, the lost opportunities, but I can’t withstand the fading of the yellow roses and the absence of coffee and time …

@ B. Todorova, 2022

Back to the past


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I miss you Athens, sometimes, I confess.
I crave your hot 40•C days, 
your moist nights, your sparkling sun. 
Frost - bound and ravaged, 
I scavenge through the streets of London. 
The thought of you does not sustain my desires, 
the frigid sunsets disrupt me, all day,
I long for the sapphire elegance of your skies. 
I want to lie down under the August shadows 
of your palm trees, deprived of Ciara’s darkness,
satisfied with the touch of golden sands 
and the taste of ice cubes in freddo-cappuccino.
And I stride, aimlessly, forlorn, dreaming of twilights,
hunting you and your vibrant outlook ...

@ BT/2022



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Brutal love, lonely promises in frigid, velvet gowns,
the sun has turned back on you, on me, on hope.
We all weep, defeated by raven tears,
by weapons of fantasies and regrets, asking why?

Why did he end the illusion of rainbows, the bloom of destiny,
merrily pirouetting over the ivory beauty of snow?
Who let him swipe fiercely the gift of dreams and flowers?
What soul, what consciousness he shares?

And as the freezing nights separate us with blizzards,
with lifeless words of unwritten ballads, I see
how every dawn is secretly charged with fake summers,
but no answer is granted, only thorns and wounds,

carving the final emotional debris, guarding
silently the crystal tiara of his mistress, lady Winter.

@ BT/2022
Bounds Green – January 2020