7 hours
curling into cotton
drawing swirls into fabric
6 clock ticks
swan lake hues
run to storm cloud blues
5 am tamping down screams
a tear trail carves a glistening creek
from naked eye lines to half moon dimples
4 seconds
take a beat
hold a breath
3 bright messages
neon on greyscale
empty fingers tap tap tapping
2 thumbs on a pocket size screen
frantic horrid manic
almost borderline panic
1 plane takes off from an airfield
1 plane lands safely half a continent away
you and me have history
muddy like the creek bed
romance on its death bed
screaming-fights-at-midnight kinda fucked up story
fingers skimming canvas shoulders
cherry lips leaving carmine drops
on your favorite painting
ð“„¼
3AM is when my mother is right, when problem sets are finished, and when my tears crystallize. Buses stop running as beads of water run rivulets down my shoulders into my towel. You were right that day you told me we would suffocate each other. The wall clock ticks in tune to my racing heart. Across the continent a city is waking. I wonder if you've thrown my toothbrush away.
~
"Every moment happens twice: inside and outside,
and they are two different histories."
~
Zadie Smith
Ancient Greek letters
Painted in uneven strokes
Under LEDs
~
now that's an odd juxtaposition
"Maybe 'forever' was a word meant for memories and not people."
-- Anonymous
What will I be when you leave?
My hands were made to fit in yours,
But they do the task of cleaning and dusting just fine,
Tidying up an empty kitchen.
Stale, but not sterile.
Like blueberry muffins were baked here,
Christmas cookies, birthday cakes.
Now it smells like old parchment paper and cold morning sunlight.
Memories play like a sad montage,
A kaleidoscope of blurry euphoria,
Brown eyes crinkled in laughter,
Hair tossed in autumn wind,
Gentle arms.
My bedsheets are gentle,
Soothing on my skin,
But they don't have the same warmth.
I bought them with you.
My feet were made to walk with yours,
But apparently, they do the task of moving on just fine.
What am I after you left?
Still whole, still me,
But sorely wanting.
moon graced
sliver lines
pools of mercury
bow string taut
her lonely vigil
sandal clad feet
silent over moss
chase her
track her
a crossroads ago
lost her
now who is hunting?
now who is hunted?
amber bones, honey hued
against flowing wheat fields
fresh bread, its aroma wafting
comfort
home and safety in a handwoven basket
in her arms
a hearth
burning golden
sometimes it comes in a mass
like great torrents, storming
grand paragraphs washed onto the page
other times it comes in simple pieces
words splattering in droplets
few and far between
cascade of raindrops on the window
grey sunlight shines dimly on a glowing monitor
mouse clicks
guitar strums flow faintly from your headphones
rumpled sheets feel like home
who am i?
student, daughter,
thinker, dreamer,
friend, lover.
artist.
writer.
storyteller.
and if the story i tell is just my own?
then so be it.
and i suppose part of it is right here,
in this pocket of the internet,
possibly eternally.
artist.
writer.
crafter,
of my own story.
and i suppose that's enough.
words seep like oil
dripping slowly
one by one
inky drops
appearing on the page
each curve and segment
contrasted sharply against stark white paper
foreign
odd
as if sprung from some strange creativity
other than my own
my heart beats
steady
pumping
ac humming softly from the vent above my desk
blades of grass swaying outside the window
pen tapping
mind racing
racing
racing
in circles
hold your hand through berry fields, verdant tulip springs
arms linked, running past summer woods
waltzing into autumn rays, trip on laughing pumpkin faces
i pick melting snowflakes off your eyelashes
I'm losing the spark
Fanning at ashes
Trying to start a flame
That burnt out long ago
Firewood doused with rain
The skies weep tonight
late nights with parchment and wine
circling thoughts of grand design
velvet robes in candlelight
there is a distance and i hate it
like you're an ocean away but still in my backyard
like my arms could stretch to cross nations
and still miss you
and the rest of me can't think of a way
to bring you back
close the way we were before
mist swirls among tree trunks
eddying like a viper
turning, dancing
twisting in the emerald dusk
ancient trees brush branches through the fog
the heart of the wood beats in rhythm
dare to venture deeper
into the waiting embrace of the forest
shaky hands clasping yours
grasping at air
screaming but it's smothered in my throat
begging to stay
fragments of my soul burst
the pieces frame you like a halo
my angel
my loveliest mistake
and me
gorgeous in spectacular ruin
heavenly
if only because your part of me is dead
"The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold.
The curves of your lips rewrite history"
~
Oscar Wilde
tears streaming
angry fists
bedsheets clenched and unclenched
all the fire i haven't felt in a while
cold flames
untamed
blazing quietly in the four walls
of my small room
anger
roaring silently
past my blinds stream rays of sunlight
shadows under oaks
sparrows perched chirping on fences
stones scatter the creek bed
i'll miss you, home
two thousand miles away, i'll love you
crashing coastlines to sunkissed cherry trees
i'll leave my soul here
care for it well
she floats
suspended in the eye of the storm
a feather twirling
weightless
or perhaps
simply dormant
until she decides
it is time
to bend the clouds to her will
20
matted beard, chestnut hair,
greasy shirt, greasy eyes
behind me at the gas station
i wore a skirt today
fill my gas and
go, go, go
18
sunny san francisco, in the corner of my eye
white seagulls, white tank top
red bridge, red cargo pants
tourists fill the pier
his voice carries above the crowd
three of us
three pairs of boots, rushing away
. . .
12
baseball cap, old nike shorts,
stubble
strolling in the park, passing the bathroom door
once, twice, thrice,
closer
i wait for my mom to come out
wearing bright pink shorts and fear
our time is limited
days short
minutes finite
seconds infinitesimally small
a negligible tick on the timeline
against the stream of millennia
each life miniscule and fragile and yet
and yet
it is something out of nothing
1 from an infinite 0
consciousness and order
out of empty disorder
each precious life
carved from space and time,
captured from the infinity of the universe
~
hmm an older take on this: capturing infinity take 1
Oak sap in my driveway
Sticky soles
I run out to greet you
I wish you could stay
Drizzles in California
Wetting rusty fences
The sky weeps on cracked tennis courts
I wish today lasted decades.
Sun rays warm our laced fingers
Messy hair tumbled by the wind
Golden gate above sea salt
I wish I could hold you forever.
"Hot summer nights, mid-July...
the way you'd play with me like a child"
-- Lana Del Rey, Young and Beautiful
There is something so intoxicating about summer.
Whatever essence it is that this season carries,
I want to wrap it up and collect it in a jar.
There's so much romance and nostalgia
That comes with road trips and wind swept hair,
It's like living in the flashes between a movie montage.
But I think the magic is that it ends.
That the drunk nights and dry sunlight are just a blink in time.
The glory of summer is embedded in youth,
When this season was for vacation and fun and laughter.
And the beauty of it all was that it came and went too quickly.
And each year we would wish and pray for the time
To live in its moments again.
Summer was golden.
It was a thing to be remembered,
A blur of happiness to hang on to the rest of the time.
Because summer vacations end.
One day we rinse the sand off our sandals and go back to school for the last time.
Summer is childhood and one day those months are gone.
I like words
(if you couldn't tell).
I like using them to color in my feelings
Like I can write a picture book out of my brain.
Sometimes though,
I don't really know which ones to pick.
And I suppose on those days
It's enough that the book is just two words.
Not good.
Today I feel
Not good.
And that's okay.
my fingers are stiffer now
they dance over old notes
covered by a thin sheen of dust
white keys now a muted ivory
glossy pedals more scuffed than shiny
how many hours did i spend on this stool?
no playdates until you master clair de lune
no tv until you memorize this mazurka
play it five times
no mistakes
or you start over
every week, the dreaded "did she practice?"
your staccatos aren't crisp enough
your chords aren't loud enough, use your shoulders!
then silence on the car ride home
better, i suppose, than the yelling
i hate this piece
i hate chopin
i hate mozart
but the music is beautiful
and the pain is always worth the beauty
now when i open my old books
they don't make me want to scream anymore,
just relearn each measure
and remind myself how much i miss their melodies
bittersweet
the taste of petals in my mouth
blooming
filling my lungs, my throat
broken
with your back against the sunset
bleeding
battered
beautiful
that your absence should bring life
what a lovely notion
what a doomed one
~
i want to write you
i want to paint your soul with my pen
to uncover it with startling clarity
but i know it will do you no justice
i've spent years learning to weave with words
unravel a feeling and lay the pieces on a page
and yet with fumbling fingers
i grasp at air
sometimes the strings that make up our beings
run so close
i have already woven you into my core
stitched you into my life, my heart, my mind
it might tear me in two
to wrench you out
and splash you
on a page
thoughts bounce like bottles thrown out to sea
twinkling, bobbing, glinting like glass stars in a blue galaxy
some are polished by the waves,
smooth and gleaming like beads dancing across choppy waters
others more rugged
still yet to be sculpted,
waiting for the ocean to brush over their jagged edges
safe and lovely enough to be found
and held by curious hands
I have this question from time to time:
What will our end look like?
Will it be pestilence? Arrogance?
Will this world heal in our absence?
Everyone fights against that deadline,
For longevity, for purpose,
For tomorrow’s assurance.
So they say our race is malicious,
Vicious, too ambitious.
A spark searing down a detonating cord,
Sprinting faster than we can afford.
We’ll go out in a blazing storm,
In glory, true to form.
So perhaps we’re not meant for stability,
To exist in quiet limbo for eternity.
After all, the beauty of life is its brevity,
So although it’ll end eventually,
While we can, we’ll exist resplendently.
—
watching a lot of love death n robots :))
criss cross,
a nod as you greet the bus driver.
scribbles,
we’re just friends! or more?
split, a right angle,
you moved away before high school.
line becomes segment,
i’m sorry for your loss.
two, in parallel,
a wedding vow.
"For all the sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, 'it might have been'"
John Greenleaf Whitter
--
Lost letters on bloodied battlefields,
Flashing pennies in parched fountains.
Like memories of a dream space
Draped under a sepia haze.
It's you and me though, I promise.
The pieces are there.
We're meant to be happy, I swear.
--
I see a place somewhere.
Somewhere faint but familiar,
If not a little off kilter.
I see scattered fragments of us
That might have been.
--
Someday may my heart be okay
That perhaps
We're not meant for today.
--
In some other world,
Some other life.
Maybe.
Just not here.
Not this time.
--
fin
what am i but a speck of stardust amongst giants eons in age?
a spark, a flicker in the cosmos,
aren't we all
so small,
tiny
?
but
even so,
despite our triviality,
we reach pining hands out towards the stars,
we scream our existence across galaxies, across generations
hoping to mark that we were here – we lived, we mattered, we created, and died here.
The sky used to be blue,
But it was the blue of faeries' wings,
Of hidden, sparkling mountain springs.
The grass was green,
The green of tree sprites,
Green of forests rife with life.
The reds, the yellows,
Of roses, of willows,
Of curtains, of pillows,
Of sunsets mellow.
The colors I painted with:
For love and laughter,
For secrets and letters,
For the stories of triumphs and disasters.
So what do I paint with now?
My palette is washed,
The rainbows I gathered are faded hues.
Though,
Perhaps all the colors I drew from the world,
I will learn to forge myself.
Hey, it's been a while.
Six years, actually, since you've made me smile.
Since your pretty words and pretty rhymes
Kept me afloat through all those times.
I miss you.
I think I lost you.
I think I lost that part of me
That spoke in lines of poetry,
That dreamt in vivid imagery,
And adored the world so ardently.
I was fourteen,
Naive and barely in my teens.
You lent me a way to lay my thoughts
In winding lines of twisting rhymes,
Like flowering vines for a flowering mind.
There was magic in my world
So there was magic in my pen,
In my keyboard,
In this page.
My words could nurture gardens.
My words could found empires.
But it's been six years.
When did the pastels and florals of my imagination fade
To the beige and humdrum of office desks?
When did flowing lines of rhythm fall apart
To Furthermores and Therefores, every syllable clipped and clinical?
When did the flashing fish beneath falls give way
To the stream of stale water from a corporate fountain?
When did—
Well, that's the funny thing about time.
It slips through your fingers, doesn't it?
And when it passes,
It passes.
I don't feel you nudging my wrist anymore,
Lithe fingers guiding me to spin songs out of my musings.
I don't know when my crimsons turned to muted mauves,
When you dissipated from the corners of my mind like wisps of breath in frosty air.
I don't recall when you departed and didn't return.
And I am left
Wishing you back.
