Where does love go?

Does it slip through our clenched fists, so desperately ready to clash against a wooden door out of frustration, just to spare one another's flesh? Does it spill from our souls and travel down the tracks on our cheeks, finally soaking into our pillowcases at 3am when we've been thinking too much? Does it shoot from our mouths with every horrible word we say to one another? Or maybe it gets caught in the silence when we're laying beside one another, both wide awake but staring at the walls as if every answer we need will appear on them. 

Does it drown inside of a whiskey bottle so that we can pretend that love never existed at all? Does it get tangled on the bedroom floor of a stranger who we chose because they had your eyes, or they wore the same cologne, and we prayed that maybe we'd find a substitute for love underneath someone else's covers? Does it dissipate in the cold winter air; from a cigarette that you don't even enjoy the taste of, but you'd just hoped it would replace the addiction? 

Does it slip out the back door when you leave in a rush, after we've told one another we never want to see each other again? Does it fade into the hum of a dial tone, after we've ended our conversation with no goodbye? Does it crash into a million pieces with every broken promise we've never fulfilled? Maybe it tiptoes from our breath with a long sigh, when we're alone and we realize that this isn't how love is supposed to be. Does it get trapped in the memories, when our smiles were genuine, behind the glass of pictures that collect dust in boxes we've hidden away? 

I will never understand where love goes. I will never understand how little by little, the person who once made you feel so alive, could drain you so completely. I'll never understand how it feels like one day you go to bed with the man you thought was your person in life, and wake up in an instant with a complete stranger. 

With you, I've been playing it all back, retracing my steps, thinking of what I could have possibly missed, trying to desperately pinpoint the moment that our love disappeared; as if I'm trying to retrace my steps to find my misplaced keys. And that is when I usually realize, that as much as I'd hope my love for you was lost for good, there I find it, tucked away in a corner of my heart, like a little note you find hidden in your jeans pocket, all wrinkled and faded from going through the washer. And I think of you, and I miss you, the good and the bad. And I still love you.

And that's when I realize that love doesn't go anywhere. It was either there or it wasn't. I don't think your love was ever really there for me. It was always easy for you to leave me behind. Me, on the other hand, well I was never really good at letting go, and if I go searching, I still find my love for you.  

Glasses

  We enter this world believing anything can happen. We believe in miracles. It's as if we wear these glasses with lenses that allow us to see the world only through curiosity. At some point, we lose that childlike sense of wonder, and eventually we start to lose something even more important: hope. It's now not a good thing to believe in miracles; it's naive. We take off the glasses, set them on a dusty shelf, and walk through the world with blind eyes.

  Sometimes I wonder if maybe we focus too hard on growing up, and not growing down. We reluctantly take off the glasses, and then refuse to even attempt to try them back on. What if, after all this time, they no longer work? Won't I look like a fool wearing these glasses that might not even fit anymore? 

  But I'm learning that some things in life are worth risking looking like a fool for. 

  They're worth trying to see if they still fit. If they still work. 

  It's worth it to believe in miracles. It's worth it to have curious eyes. I don't want to miss something in front of me because I refuse to wear my glasses. I don't want to miss something so wonderful because I refuse to hope. 

I see you clearer

when I close my eyes; my ears, 

however, revel in your voice.

I want to be worth it to you, because I know I am.

Promises.

I promise to never tell someone the ending of a book or a movie unless they really ask for it. I don’t want to spoil the future by telling them what will happen, for most of the fun lies in the journey to getting there.

I promise to never take my past experiences and place them as a burden on the future. I vow to make my decisions instead of letting bad experiences dictate my thoughts and feelings.

I promise to continue to swim even when it feels like I am drowning. But I also promise to never swim towards the sharks or people that fool me into thinking they are lighthouses.

I promise to be good to people even when they are not good to me. I will give them a smile even if they are murdering me with their eyes. And I will be compassionate, loving, kind, and genuine to the rest of the world even when it is only raining on me. I will still love the sky when it storms.

I promise to stop trying to control everything. Life is uncontrollable and that is a blessing. Soon, it will all fall into place, even if we have no idea how. I will end up somewhere beautiful. And through it all, I will enjoy myself through the moments that make me cry and the moments that make me laugh. It will all be worth remembering one day.

I promise to never give up on the beauty in life and the sincerity in people. Most importantly, I promise to never give up on myself. I acknowledge my worth and know my value, and therefore, I promise to let myself be happy.

And on top of everything else...

I'm scared because I love you too much.

Love is...

Love is your warmth, the leftover food in the refrigerator, the songs we sing, the security of your arms, the whipped frosting on a cupcake, the smell of the wind on a chilly fall evening, the slight curl of your hair, layers of blankets, the scars on your face, the games you play, your hands and all you do with them, the kisses you give, the way you talk, 5 am morning breath, your violent twitches as you fall asleep, the electric feeling of your touch, multiple alarms and multiple pillows, back scratching, finishing a grueling homework assignment, sweets and treats, nicknames, encouragement,  late night dinners and Netflix and movies, cats and cuddles, disheveled hair and smeared mascara, silence, growth, and beauty.

Love is simply you, I, and a careless mixture of everything else.

Sleep.

The day is so big, I can feel it stretching out before me.  The last thing you want to do after waking up from a good sleep, is to go and put yourself through work and chores and social interaction.  I know I have to move on from here, but wouldn't it be nice, to just stay in bed, and steal a little more of that perfect sleep?

Open.

I want to crack you open.
I want to unveil you.
I want to see every crevice and scar that is within you.
I want to study every inch of your inner being.
I want to see the beauty that is underneath your exterior.

Lay my hands on the ripples of your heart and have it feel whole again.
Trace my fingers down the history of your years and have you believe in good things again.
Beautiful people do not just happen.
So I’m going to study the beauty of you with all that’s in me.
And after all the pages, I’d do the uncommon;
I’m going to put the bookmark of my heart next to where your heart lies and keep the book forever.

Nobody is perfect until you fall in love with them. 

A bird at your window.

Do you ever hang on to something so tightly that when you finally open your hand, it hurts? But until you feel that, you didn't realize just how tightly you were holding on. You've left your mark on whatever you were holding and it has left it's mark on you. Your heart does the same thing. We are at the boundary between like and love. We do love each other, but it's hidden under wraps. I can admit it only in the quiet of my sleep, under the pillows where I hide everything that I've been meaning to tell you but can't find the right words. I'm afraid. Afraid of jumping into something that we can't dive back out of. How cowardly of us, to hide behind these walls that we've built up only because we're afraid of the vulnerability and hurt that comes with falling for someone so hopelessly. I don't have a choice in it anymore, and I just have to let what will be... be. I didn't plan this. One day at a time, you said. Because as of right now, as I sit here, I can picture the morning sun settling on your face. The mornings don't even seem to be too bad during moments such as these. Your eyelashes, fluttering like wings, come to rest above your perfectly shaped eyes. My heart may skip a beat when they rise- having been caught gawking like a voyeur behind a camera. 
Or a bird at your window. 
Or a girl in adoration. 
      And you'll smile. 
Because as of right now, everything is as it should be. 

Rain.

That calm feeling that can only be achieved with a determined breeze and hazy horizon. The trees shiver from the thought, welcoming the change. In a heart beat the wind grows violent as the relentless downpour begins. Most people run and hide, others draw their shield; I bite my lip, giddy inside. The delight from the pelting drops and swirling air as each drop find it’s own home; in the trees, on a roof, or with friends in the bay. But, it is never the performance that entices the audience, it is the anticipation before, and the memories after.
As the clouds approach, the air turns, leaving a resilient smell of warning; the day becomes balanced, calm and serene. It starts with a drizzle as the ground begins to slowly change color. The wind pushes you along, whispering to stay and play a bit longer. Light grey clouds tell of a gentle shower while darker ones warn of an approaching storm. Water never hurt anyone, you were going to take a shower anyway; why not stay and listen to nature as she pours her soul down to the earth?

Comfort.

I want giant sweaters, loose pants, and moccasins. I want the wind to blow, fierce and howling, while I nestle down in the nook of comfort. Crack open a book. Feel the spine crinkle beneath tentative fingers. Reach out- there. Barely within reach is the cup of hot chocolate, or coffee, or something.Whatever it is, enjoy it. Maybe someone enters the room, and curls up where I haven’t. Perhaps not. Either way, I know that there is a world waiting for me. Perhaps not within the pages of the novel I’m holding in my hands, but instead, in the future. My mind wanders- skipping from class to class, from accomplishment to defeat. From that joke that cracked me up the other day, to the euphoria of receiving rewards for hard work. Then, thoughts scatter. They bounce between the liars, the abusers, and the needers. Those who never give back. But wait-what was that right there? Hatred? No, not anymore. Reach a little deeper… apathy. Wonderful, brilliant apathy. The band aid for feelings. Why has it taken this long to realize that respect is what matters most in the world? Respect is what keeps animosities at bay, persuades opposites to attract, and draws the cautious towards the flames. Flames. Fire. Logs, crackling and whispering nonsense to velvet coated ears. Blankets tossed about tangled legs, protruding toes. Comfort.

Perfection.

It's a moment of absolute perfection; I don’t know anything more intense and beautiful than two people, madly wanting each other but still restraining themselves because the tension is too flawless to be broken.

Paper Boats.

I fold my memories into paper boats
And watch them sail a short distance
Before they sink,
Each one reappearing in a book
I always carry but never read.

One day I hope to tear away these pages
And fold them into a shape
Which resembles a dream
Then watch it fly away,

Never to sink
Or return to its numbered order,
Just carry itself to the horizon.

Daydream.

So what do I do today? Daydream? It seems I always am these days. Constantly finding myself laying about the house with you on my mind;  imagining what you would do if you were here beside me, what you would smell like, how your lips would taste. The hours spent in waiting, the visions in my head. You're worth it. So until I see you right there in front of me, I’ll be happy seeing you in my daydreams, my dear.  

Before you knew you'd know me.

Expression.

My life feels a bit hollow without music these last few months. No pianos or guitars being played around me, so I've spent more time thinking, writing, dreaming. I'm coming to discover that I am an expressionist- not a member of the early 20th century art movement originating in Germany (although the article I just read on expressionism was fascinating), but rather someone who thrives on releasing the things that are inside of me. I believe in the world that is around me, but I find myself flowing through it most easily when I can express my mind and my emotion and my soul. Openness is so essential to who I am. Discretion, of course, is an important obligatory factor: I can't tell everyone everything. In fact, some pieces of my soul should never be shared. I have secret places that I treasure very much. Some of them are embedded within songs- the rise and fall of melodies splashing over each other, triads and inversions mapping the twisting passages of the language of my heart. It is a messy kind of expression at times; even with my words, I cannot always find the right vessel through which to speak. My thoughts, as with all thoughts of mankind, are incomplete: the edges and illogical ends are propped up and forgiven by emotional matter, by intuitions, by spirit. None of these exist in their full fledged form outside, not in the warm air, not in the impressions and judgments of those people around me. Of course I am misunderstood: are not we all? But the beauty in life, at least as I have come to encounter it, is discovered when expression meets expression, when hearts are warmed by other hearts, and when humanity is kissed by the sustaining wonder of eternity.

Importance.

Isn't it funny-

The importance of words?
How one syllable, 
or one
flighty exchange of letters
or the 
tempo and the rhythm
could change a meaning
or interpretation
or the fluidity
in a heartbeat
and take a lifeless mess of

messy phrases
and jagged images,
transformed into
orderly, well-polished, fluent works of art -
spoken of the mouth and mind?

Played.

You played me
like the fool I am.
You placed your lips
around the roots of my soul
and breathed
so softly that it
excited a melody
to resound
throughout my lungs.

But your heart never desired to be
one with mine.
You simply liked the way
I could pick you up
and love everything
you hated
of yourself.

Her Radiant Limb

I have never had a song bring me to tears before like this one. I feel as though, if I were to be a piece of music in a another life, I would be this song. Thank you, Mother Falcon.

Never Seen.

The next time you are walking down a familiar suburban sidewalk right as the sunset is fading, stop. Stop dead in your tracks.

Don’t worry about seeming silly. Don’t watch for supercilious stares. Stand still. Not at an intersection, nor at a mailbox, nor at a lamppost. Stop in the middle of a step that you are expected to finish. Stop, and if you blink your eyes and still know where you are, stop that, too. 

     Just stop.

     Stop and imagine that you have been dropped from the sky to where you stand. 

Stop, and tell me when the air starts to get familiar. I am curious. Does it take months to get to know, does it take in it to grow?

I will return to childhood bedrooms that seem as foreign as they once flowed, brick like bones and painted veins that once signified home, so let me ask you, what’s the difference between the first time you laid eyes on that birthday gift, what’s the difference between old wrinkled lips and fresh ones pursed to kiss, what’s the difference between the stoplight you pass every day to work and one you’ve never seen or heard, 

     or felt. Cold, stagnant, scintillating. 

See, I am midthought and midstep ambling past State Street as usual and I walk into a thick wall near an alley. At first I wonder, is this okay? That’s what our social conceptions have done to our freedoms: convert them into anxieties, is this okay? I allow myself an exasperated sigh and glance around, and then, I stop minding them, freeze, and take a look around. 

     The next time you are reducing everything in your life to the past, stop. 

I tell myself that I have never walked past this place before. The building across the street, the power lines and the slope, the trees across the way and the parking lot stretch, I have never experienced this town before. The buildings refuse me and I let them, diaphanous things they’ve become, I stop looking at them as if I know them by name, convinced that they are generic facades on a typical small-town street. It works. This scene, this could be from anywhere, any picture, any movie. My memories of this place might set it apart, but what good is the familiarity if it makes me skim over? Is it not indolent for me to stop seeing, to stop noticing? To look at things and see the past but not the present? 

We think that it would enervate our world-weary minds to treat old things as new, but this is a lie. It enervates us to stop seeing and to stop wondering, to stop learning like uprooted hearts still beating with bewilderment. 

So, I let it feel new. The bricks and arches, the spaces in between, the crosswalk and the lawn extending left of me. It feels so new that I am hopeful I might break out of my bridle with teeth snarling, hooves stamping, and mind reared. It feels so new that I am afraid I am lost completely; that if you dropped me here in a dream I wouldn’t be able to recognize it or gain my bearings, wouldn’t be able to find my way home. 

I hate that memory is a blessing and a curse like this; if it was one or the other, I’d have my answers. Instead I stand in the dimming summer air, simmering thin, wondering if I have been spending my entire life trying to be someone else without intending it. Taking after someone else’s clothes, someone else’s lines, someone else’s style, someone else’s home. I don’t want that. I’m standing here in the middle of the sidewalk and cars are passing and people are walking off in all directions and I’m looking at the cement in front of me like I’ve never seen it before, and all of a sudden this is when I feel more independent than I have felt all my life.

     It is a short moment. I am unhooked. I am original. I am vast. 

     So it follows that in all the other moments, I must be a slave. 

As far as the fear of the unknown goes, while I’m pausing on that sidewalk afraid of getting lost, I can still raise my head to the sky and inhale as deeply as I want. I do not need landmarks or welcome mats. I want novel lights in bygone dawns, and only your billets-doux to anchor me down. Olfaction, see, is the greatest trigger of memory; and for me, it’s all the ones that I want to keep, and so if I’m dropped like a needle on a record I can’t recognize, I will trace the air for the scent of your skin. And besides, this is what new experience is about, after all—to change yourself and go back to the start so that you can find, there, everything you want. 

Blink.

Sometimes I blink and when I open my eyes again, I see my thoughts through a detached lens as they pass through my head, and I realize that above all else, I am waiting. That is my natural state, a state of enduring the present while craving the future. I circle in a holding pattern, assuming subconsciously that one day a stranger will press a key that unlocks everything into my palm.

Sorry.

How am I supposed to function when my muddied but loving boots are not making imprints on anyone’s souls? I keep stomping around, bound to the loudness I hope someone will hear. Hear to say, “Stop. Come inside, I will make a cup of tea.” I am not meant for hostels and half-romances. I am meant for trips around the world and lengthy novels written solely about the beauty and fear behind your hands. Hands I only wish I could find. Mine keep searching for you behind blackened keys and dried-up pens, but I only feel heat running thin. I try to look back, but there are these spots in my mind. What was his laugh like? Did he really mean to speak those words? They are dissolving from my grasp; water pouring out between my paled fingers. I have not much left, Lord. 
Why was I given the need to love so greatly when all it has done has broken off what’s left of my fractured body? Why is it there when all it has done is make people run? What good is it? Damnit, I sit here crying because I lack the strength to dare to leave this place without another glance yet too weak to be on my own. The one that let me feel safe. My prince who brought about passion. And the only person that ever cared to understand the real me. What good is it ripping my heart out from my chest and handing it over just to get it right back? They are probably all debating whether to put their ‘wasted times’ returns back onto their debits or visas. “Sign your name here,” I will point, “and you will get a full refund. Terribly sorry about the troubles.” I am so terribly sorry.

Mirage.

I have a wonderful view right now. A view that not only excites my eyes, but my mind and heart. It’s nothing I’m familiar with, yet everything I know. It’s like a sweet aromatic view that lures my senses in. I smile slyly, knowing what my emotions are getting into, but I let them explore the view. I introduce my body to this feeling, a feeling it never fails to recognize. Its dangerous and enticing, and a big part of me doesn’t want to acknowledge it. But it’s as though my body, mind, and heart are doing everything and I’m simply a spectator. I watch the way it recognizes the different attributes of this view, and the way it correlates it to what it’s known before. It’s mysterious, and the mystery is precisely the reason behind its attraction. It examines this view doubtfully, yet it wants to deem this view different than all the others. Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, my view is blurry. Reality sets in again, and clears the blur, dictating that my view was simply a mirage…a mirage of what will never be again.  

I wonder what it's like.

I mostly wonder what it’s like to be written of, to know what I’m like behind that thin veil of admiration. I've been painted, sketched and photographed, but never written of. Never that thing that yanks at the strings of my heart and means something from deep within the core of me. I wonder what I’d be like, how I’m seen. I wonder how richly it would strike me to have the ink of another’s words wrapped around my body like a sheet. I wonder who I am in print and how strongly I’d be written by someone else’s hand. I wonder if it’s a joy I’ll ever know. 

I've fallen.

I fell half in love with a lot of things today.
I fell half in love with the snow that swirled chaotically, without a direction.
I fell half in love with the voice of a man who sang too often of the things he was unsure of.
I fell half in love because I understood what it was to write too much of something you know too little of. 
I fell half in love with the boy I've only just met this school year, his eyes and his hands and his everything and the we that we could be. 
I fell half in love with the smell of cookies baking and the heavy lidded feeling of a lazy morning. 
I fell half in love with the feel of bare feet on cold wood and of watering eyes in the stinging February air.

I fell wholly in love with being alive.

Pocket Holes.

There was once a girl
That carried the weight of
The world in her jean pocket.
But those jeans began to rip
With every step she took
Down that bumpy gravel road,
And before she knew it the
Burdens she kept with her
Were sprawled out, smeared all around her.
That road she stumbled down,
She realized it was cold,
And in the fragments of all the broken things
She couldn’t find a single
Thing to keep her warn.
So she sat on the curb
For years upon years,
And not once did a car
Pass by.
It was just her as far as
She could see,
Alone with the weight of
The world
Lying before her.

Thought.

Talking in circles, I am dizzy and my head is spinning. I have been looking for something to pass the time, a pair of lips to kiss, a hand to hold, a face to memorize, but I am coming up short and leaving myself with nothing more than blisters covering the pads of my dry fingertips, the ones I have bitten down to practically nothing through this anxiety and stress and

“I look at you sometimes and you look like your thoughts are miles off,” he told me and I brushed hair out of my eyes and assured him that this was simply not the time to make accurate judgments. He believed me. 

My eyes hurt. I can’t open them wide enough to see light. My hands shook for thirty minutes last night and I couldn't breathe, I was ready to tear my chest into pieces and let my lungs loose so that they could find room to suction air on the floor. I swear to god, I haven’t had anxiety this bad since I got off that medication. Instead I just sat in the back and watched the second hand on the clock slow down more and more until my skin was crawling. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and was surprised when I didn't throw up in the sink. 

Coffee.

Sometimes I sit alone with a cup of coffee and don’t think at all. It’s nice to have a blank mind and an engaged palate. When my mind is always going somewhere between full tilt and some speed probably considered a low level felony, nothing is more relaxing than a cup of coffee on a sunrise. Or a sunset. Or the middle of the night, drowning in all that liquid moonlight. Any time is a good time for a cup of coffee and emptiness. Would you believe me if I said I hated coffee up until a month or so ago? 

Captivating.

Touch.

I love my hands. They do everything. They touch and they hold. They push and they pull. They are the beginning of a friendship, or a smack in the face. They control why I (we) do. I wouldn’t know what to do if I ever hurt my hands. I love to draw, and I love to write. Not only do I love the work that my hands do, I love their ability to touch. I love my sense of touch.

 I love walking through a fabric store and letting my hands run along the aisles of fabric. The feeling of running my fingers across a new book, preparing to turn the first page. The slight pain, but then instant relief of putting my hands under warm water after being outside in the cold. I like the feeling of smooth hair between my fingers, the first breeze of sweet spring air on my skin, and the feeling of cool water on my body. But what I like the most, is the feeling of touching someone else’s skin. Its intimate. Comforting. Loving. Passionate. Pure. Genuine.

I love the most obvious forms of touch such as, being able to lay in bed with someone and feeling their fingers stroke my back. The feeling of being pressed up against someone else. Being held on to so tight, thinking the feeling will never go away. But it’s funny, because the most simple forms of being touched sometimes means the most. Someone stroking your face, and pushing your hair out of the way. A hand on the middle of your back that says, “I’m here, don’t worry”. Even the simple embrace of a hug means so much. I trace the lines of your face. The softness of your eyelids, the curve of your lips, the sharpness of your jaw. Touch. 

Overwhelming.

Life is overwhelming. I can feel it all around me, my senses are going wild. My emotions are overwhelming and no matter how hard I try, I can not yield my feelings. I’ve kept it all bottled up inside for so long, and now it’s all flowing out; never ending. I’m so aware of my surroundings, a laughing child, the cool wind chilling my cheeks, the whisper between two lovers. I can feel it all. I can hear it, sense it, taste it, touch it, see it. Everywhere. My mind is flooded with feeling, drowned in awareness of life. It’s all so real. It’s so beautiful, reaching in, touching me, as I beg for more. Wanting so much to know the freedom I can find if i just let go, let it take me away and allow myself the freedom to breathe once more.

Comfortable.

You took up residence in my heart, got comfortable, and let your cup rest on the table without a coaster. Then you left and took your things with you, cleaned up, but the rings from your cup remained. 

I let you get comfortable

and you left your mark. 

Glass

I must remember that my heart is one of glass. A tiny, fragile, being that will easily sit in the hand of any idle man that happens to find me in the gutter. It is tired, showing cracks and breaks around the outside. Scars of where it has been so carelessly dropped onto tiles and aged wooden floors of antique houses. I must remember not to be so quick to give it away, as I must trust the keeper very much. They must wrap it up in many layers of colorful tissue paper as to present it, to perfect it. It must be safe in layers of secrets and worn out letters from the past and the future and it must be warm most importantly. I do not want it to freeze. I must remember to keep it safe and to keep myself happy and I must remember that I am no longer a fool nor a child. That soon I shall be an adult. Maybe I shall keep my heart to myself for a while, locked away for no one to harm; maybe.

Reason.

Reason so rules my life that emotional matters send me spinning into madness.

Music.

Ringing bass, slowly melting

                 melding particles;

          every beat connecting

                      or collapsing within

     the ear drum.

Holding back.

To let my fears get the worst of me is something I regret every day, every time. I over think, overreact, and over exaggerate. I make circles of irony and stupidity, revolved around my fears, worries, doubts, paranoia. And then, I just think. I’m always thinking, it’s nonstop; it’s constant. Most of it is about nothing, which is all built up in my head. This is why I remain quiet, because it is literally nothing to worry about. 

I’m not first to say what is wrong. I wait. I am always waiting. Either for the feeling to pass or for you to ask. And I know this is not fair, but this is just how I am. I can’t allow myself to say there is something wrong because what if what’s wrong is me? The concoctions created by my own mind. 

I’m afraid. I don’t know where to go from here. I want to trust, you have no idea, but I am restricted from doing so. I’m held back from myself. I am insecure. I don’t believe in myself. I’m endowed by my insecurities and stupidity.

Cloudless Heart.

Blue sky,
closed doors,
unforgivable openness
that seems forever locked.

An eyelash flickers in the forest,

swift
    and
        sure

every time I smile,
can you smile too?

Bon Iver.

Fighting.

I sat in the corner of your room one night and wondered what dream had a hold on you. Your eyes were shifting violently, searching for something behind your eyelids. I could tell you were waging war in some epic battle within your subconscious. Every so often your lips would part as if to speak but a furrowed brow took the place of the words that never came. I sat there as long as my eyes would allow me and watched you silently, a caring smile sitting appropriately beneath my nose. I drifted off and dreamt of the battles you fought, only in mine I was by your side…fighting with you and fighting for you.

It is perpetually cold where your hands once laid.

The silhouettes of the naked trees against the dark, slow moving clouds are both haunting and beautiful. There is a slight breeze that gently tousles my hair, on and off, on and off. The arms of the trees are waving and dancing like small children. It is deathly quiet except for distant voices and my own breathing. I am taking deep breaths that almost sound like a series of sighs. It is the perfect time of night where the sun is gone but everything is clearly illuminated. The clouds are crawling across the sky at an inch-worm pace. The lighter patches in the clouds remind me of my consciousness, but am I really alive? The hair on my arms erect; the breeze has gotten chilly. Leaves and branches from my surrounding companions bump together and whisper among themselves as if they are caught inside a claustrophobic room. I close my eyes and shh them all. Simultaneously, softly, they obey my request. 

Breathe.

The streets comprise a melodic infrastructure tonight. They leave me the hurried stranger; the swooning lover. And each city light leaves a ghostly kiss in my mind and echoes another story I cannot live; burdens and joys. Each step I take is reminiscent of what isn't mine and each poem reflects on something I never had. I grieve over my collective fragments that are now lost inside the people I have met and spoken to. And I breathe in the air and pretend to inhale their fragments, their wants and hates, and pretend that they have given me as I have given them. 

Lost.

I want to get lost in the woods. Anywhere. I need to get lost. To zone out and lose all sense of reality. Refresh. Inspire. Start new. Lost.

I have come to realize that I trust people much too easily. When someone asks for my attention, I more than happily plunge into their gaze, smile to much, and listen too closely. I then create a false image of someone else on my own and believe their sincerity with my whole heart. Therefore, I am my own downfall, and there is no other to blame.

Eyelids.

My eyelids slide down like velvet curtains at last, across a wooden stage. Finally, the serenity sinks into the clawing depths of my mind. A calm overtakes the flickering lightening that is inside of me. 

Raining words.

Words fall like rain upon my beating heart, etching lines made of searing fire upon its crimson walls; they set my heart burning under their licking liquid flame. As my blood begins to simmer, I feel the storm brewing within my heart boil over. Lacing my mortal blood with God’s sweet thunder, I feel the lightening chain itself into my nerves, as it fires crossing bolts of surging blue light. As my body echoes the sirens savage song of these honeyed words, I feel the cool touch of serenity upon my brow. As my hand flies across the page, I let the stroke of my pen lash out with gleeful abandonment as I funnel this torturous fire through my pallid finger tips. A small smile upon my lips, I feel languid pleasure shift across my being as I find my release upon the sharp edge of a gilded pen.

I'm scared.

It’s all too much.

A tumult of half-frozen, emptied thoughts

rain down like snow, fall upon glass, crash, and then shatter into a thousand things-

pieces that break the skin, the frame of mind and leave drops of fear behind,

only washed away by all that’s left inside, submerged beneath the surface.

Would you believe all I want is to be heard? 

Yet silence falls so fast, my tongue held back by the fated shadow of its demand. 

It... it is the voice inside that finds me,

Rips apart all that would rise to life and leaves me here so breathless, lifeless, in need.

I asked for help, but help means moving forward, crawling closer to the terror raised on a thousand wings.

Blown across the wind, it stings my eyes.

So how can freedom ever rest on a soul wave tossed and lost in the sea’s churning, and the storm’s wails?

Tell me, for I long to know.

Searching.

I'm watching the world spin across your fingertips,
Smoothly, trace me your maps.
I want to see the travels between here and there,
I want to know the culture of what you're made of.
Your light shines upon me.
No longer lost in that darkness.
The blue radiates from beneath your lashes.
I search the deep waters, and grin when I think I've found it.