Love in Translation

Koi no yakan as soon as I saw you. But we were young, and proud, so there were months of aching hopes and mamihlapinatapei.
And then, one day, I lost my temper, and you were amused and you kissed me. Is there a word for kisses that you pour yourself into?

The forelsket was terrific, all delirious smiling and animal instincts and cafuné. I lost my temper sometimes, but only because I couldn’t find the right words. I didn’t know then that you ust didn’t have the right ears.

You were careless with me. I called you an asshole a lot. It took me a long time to realise that we can’t be bricoleurs when it comes to matters of the heart.

There is no word for the moment you realise your love has unravelled. And there is no word for how we change once our hearts are broken.

One day I looked at you, and all I saw was backpfeifengesicht, and I found myself saying something that didn’t need a dictionary.

It has been many years since I left you there with those saudade eyes. You ended up moulding the role of Le Douleur Exquise so exquisitely that you played it for years, while I blew off your bitter bullets as if I never broke.

But there is no word for the scars that young love leaves, or the sound my heart makes when I wake up in the middle of the night wondering if I will ever love like that again.

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Written by Alexia

Her name is Alexia. But that’s just how she knows when her mother’s mad at her. Everyone calls her Lexi, which means word in Greek. It’s no wonder she grew up to become a writer. She was born in Sydney and raised in Athens. She studied in London. Now she lives in Melbourne. She is good at loving cats, wearing red lipstick, and talking French when she’s drunk. She’s bad at paying attention, paying bills, and being a vegan (damn you, ice-cream).

She writes better than she talks, but not as much.

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