stars

reach for the stars

so my hands stretch

to you

✩

good words

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.

gaps

thank you

for filling 

the gaps 

in my thoughts

all along

they were shaped

like you

piano class

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

hanahaki

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

~

words for you

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

glass bottles

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

before the ending

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 :))

lines

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. 

snippets of a tragedy

"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

on the existence of me

 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.

new colors new beginnings

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. 

adieu pretty prose

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.