she asked her why
and she wished she could tell her, but she says
it's just a phase
it can't be real
but i know the pain you feel
i feel it in me, too
i carry it with me every day
when i thought things could be so simple
i never realized they could be so hard
(maybe that's the good in extremes)
keeping you a secret was never something i wanted
but it is something that i will do
if it means that you
will stay
Thursday, December 8, 2011
a promise of a secret
i revisit you
several times a day
sometimes when the fake silver lining
grasps the edge of the concrete
sometimes when the heart beats
and i am moved with its presence
sometimes when i wonder about
the palpitations of blood streams around me
but mostly, i revisit when the sun
is draping crudely across HER shoulders - wondering -
if your presence is so all-consuming
so all-knowing so all-powerful so all-loving
why is it that
i feel like i am traveling a desert
with no mirage in sight
wandering hopelessly
through the tunnel
when i never
see a light
several times a day
sometimes when the fake silver lining
grasps the edge of the concrete
sometimes when the heart beats
and i am moved with its presence
sometimes when i wonder about
the palpitations of blood streams around me
but mostly, i revisit when the sun
is draping crudely across HER shoulders - wondering -
if your presence is so all-consuming
so all-knowing so all-powerful so all-loving
why is it that
i feel like i am traveling a desert
with no mirage in sight
wandering hopelessly
through the tunnel
when i never
see a light
Thursday, November 10, 2011
at four, i drew a line. my foot, dressed amicably in a pair of white-and-black oxford lace-ups, scratched the boundary out, playground wood chips falling in the wake of my toe placement. my safe place. on the other side, a slew of my peers stood, waiting their turn to destroy my line.
"no," i whispered, hands clasped tightly to the linen scrap of my blue-jean pockets, "this is mine. you can't take this."
but take was all they did. my linear paradise, as beautiful as it once was, wouldn't stay that way. death would flutter in and out; failure and poverty surrounded the area. destitution ate the remaining living entities. hope would occasionally peak in through the tree limbs, but the effect was so minute that the only resolution was the deadening, and eventual falling, of crisp red leaves.
i revisited the line again at twenty, only to find my precious boundary unrecognizable due to years of abuse and neglect. for a second, i pondered the possibility of repairing it; years of damage cannot be erased, but at the very least, i could create something better with the knowledge i possessed. after lingering momentarily over the subject, i resolved to leaving it the way it was. my heart, stammering quietly in its chamber, did not even seem to mourn the boundary's passing. why would i? the line was, at best, outdated. i was not the same. at four, i had perfectly manicured shoes and immaculate, overly feminine attire. my hair hung in well-manufactured curls, result of dedicated work by my mother. my white stockings were untouched. the only dirty aspect of my body, in fact, was my fingernails, but even that could easily be ramified. now, however, i am adorned with a pair of haphazardly ripped black jeans, the sides of the thigh hanging on by only a thread in most places. my top half is covered in a low-cut tshirt, a black cropped-and-dirty leather jacket hanging over the majority of it. my feet are placed into a pair of low-cut chucks that have seen their fair share of events. whereas i once might have symbolized innocence, i now have become a poster child for bruised, beaten, and indecisive.
those same chucks reach forward and kick a few wood chips from the center of the line. a clear pastic bottle shimmers from my pocket, the golden liquid sloshing in its container as i move. i turn away from the line, take the bottle from my pocket and release it to my lips.
"i don't need it anymore," i screw the bottle cap half on and place it back into my pocket, "this is all child's play." my movements become more brisk as i make way from the line, as if i am scared of the consequences of my actions. if anyone had asked me outwardly, i probably would have given an emphatic no, insisting on the insanity of the questioner.
again, death visited the area. failure did, too; poverty was no stranger. this time, however, new visitors snuck around in the horizon: blue powders with tingling sensations, promiscuity, self-pain, deceit, irresponsibility. hope's rays had no chance of getting through the muttled cobwebs that keep the surrounding conifers in lightless silence. the only thing that could be felt or heard was the occasional reverberating bass lines that boomed beneath the earth's surface. the wood chips became molded by torrential waterfall. the line, once clear in its intentions, became a hodgepodge of debris, circular and in no way resembling its initial purpose.
the reverberations continued on. morning felt like night and night was quickly forgotten. people came and went, most of them quickly, but a few stayed around for more than just a cup of coffee and a one-night stand. the cigarette burns down to a tiny stub. the quarter is used for a pedastal for ingestion and then as a means to pop a large, brightly colored gumball into the mouth. fall, winter, and spring came in vicious cycles. quiet habituation was seized by constant interruption.
slowly, however, hope made its way through the line of trees on the outskirt of the playground. the small illumination was enough for things to begin to grow, but none would prosper into anything fullgrown. the area was now a sight for sore eyes; the once-polished equipment was rusted and broken, forgotten about after years of misuse. one swing hangs by only one chain; the slide has a collection of leaves filling its insides. the colorful wheel is so rusted that there is no inclination of what colors were originally there.
as i walk through the clearing of trees, the first thing that presents itself is the line. i doubt it could even be called a line; where it once stood is now a deep groove in the ground, a watering hole for insects. tiny pieces of deteriorated candy bar wrappers and miscellaneous bits of trash decorate the interior of the groove. the wood chips are damp from a morning shower, each looking pitiful in its own respect.
"it's not what you remember, is it?" the voice comes from far off, more like a rustling in the wind rather than a voice. the voice was gentle but still loud enough to cause goosebumps to run up the exterior of my arms.
"no, i guess not," i replied, kicking at the woodchips. but then again, i think, i'm not so sure i remember this...
when did this happen? why was i not proactive enough to counter the falling apart i was witnessing? my line had been something i had cherished, even was proud of, about myself. i had gotten so mad at it for letting me fall away, but what did i do to stay close? did i do anything at all?
my wandering mind is caught offguard by the rustling, occuring somewhere off into the distance but not loud enough to hear. i search for the source, but the morning light catches the inner corners of my eye, making my head jerk away.
i ask the voice to repeat itself. my ears perk up, hoping for a reply. the morning wind bellows in around me, causing my hands to return to their spot of warmth in my peacoat. it's strange for there to be no signs of wildlife, but then again not so strange considering the dearth of anything positive for miles. the only proof of life are the particles of wrappers invested in the ground, but those could have been brought in by the wind.
i begin to think the initial voice was my mind's wishful thinking. it is completely plausible, anyway, considering my recent encounters - it definitely wouldn't be surpr...
"you know, you used to love this place," the voice begins again, "it was your safe place. mine, too, so i understand how you feel. it's a lot easier to draw lines when you're younger, right? this is mine, and this too. but when you are older, you realize that they taught sharing for a reason. the more you share, the harder it is to draw one."
"like an illness," i whisper, still watching the line of trees.
"yes, exactly, like an illness. at first, you are wonderful. hope is free within you; you are infallible. slowly, however, you lose the ability to make yourself believe. age gets the best of you. you remember the things that have happened to you before, and, much like an illness, you begin to feel tired. you start to give up. your body deteriorates. you start to fade away."
"no," i whispered, hands clasped tightly to the linen scrap of my blue-jean pockets, "this is mine. you can't take this."
but take was all they did. my linear paradise, as beautiful as it once was, wouldn't stay that way. death would flutter in and out; failure and poverty surrounded the area. destitution ate the remaining living entities. hope would occasionally peak in through the tree limbs, but the effect was so minute that the only resolution was the deadening, and eventual falling, of crisp red leaves.
i revisited the line again at twenty, only to find my precious boundary unrecognizable due to years of abuse and neglect. for a second, i pondered the possibility of repairing it; years of damage cannot be erased, but at the very least, i could create something better with the knowledge i possessed. after lingering momentarily over the subject, i resolved to leaving it the way it was. my heart, stammering quietly in its chamber, did not even seem to mourn the boundary's passing. why would i? the line was, at best, outdated. i was not the same. at four, i had perfectly manicured shoes and immaculate, overly feminine attire. my hair hung in well-manufactured curls, result of dedicated work by my mother. my white stockings were untouched. the only dirty aspect of my body, in fact, was my fingernails, but even that could easily be ramified. now, however, i am adorned with a pair of haphazardly ripped black jeans, the sides of the thigh hanging on by only a thread in most places. my top half is covered in a low-cut tshirt, a black cropped-and-dirty leather jacket hanging over the majority of it. my feet are placed into a pair of low-cut chucks that have seen their fair share of events. whereas i once might have symbolized innocence, i now have become a poster child for bruised, beaten, and indecisive.
those same chucks reach forward and kick a few wood chips from the center of the line. a clear pastic bottle shimmers from my pocket, the golden liquid sloshing in its container as i move. i turn away from the line, take the bottle from my pocket and release it to my lips.
"i don't need it anymore," i screw the bottle cap half on and place it back into my pocket, "this is all child's play." my movements become more brisk as i make way from the line, as if i am scared of the consequences of my actions. if anyone had asked me outwardly, i probably would have given an emphatic no, insisting on the insanity of the questioner.
again, death visited the area. failure did, too; poverty was no stranger. this time, however, new visitors snuck around in the horizon: blue powders with tingling sensations, promiscuity, self-pain, deceit, irresponsibility. hope's rays had no chance of getting through the muttled cobwebs that keep the surrounding conifers in lightless silence. the only thing that could be felt or heard was the occasional reverberating bass lines that boomed beneath the earth's surface. the wood chips became molded by torrential waterfall. the line, once clear in its intentions, became a hodgepodge of debris, circular and in no way resembling its initial purpose.
the reverberations continued on. morning felt like night and night was quickly forgotten. people came and went, most of them quickly, but a few stayed around for more than just a cup of coffee and a one-night stand. the cigarette burns down to a tiny stub. the quarter is used for a pedastal for ingestion and then as a means to pop a large, brightly colored gumball into the mouth. fall, winter, and spring came in vicious cycles. quiet habituation was seized by constant interruption.
slowly, however, hope made its way through the line of trees on the outskirt of the playground. the small illumination was enough for things to begin to grow, but none would prosper into anything fullgrown. the area was now a sight for sore eyes; the once-polished equipment was rusted and broken, forgotten about after years of misuse. one swing hangs by only one chain; the slide has a collection of leaves filling its insides. the colorful wheel is so rusted that there is no inclination of what colors were originally there.
as i walk through the clearing of trees, the first thing that presents itself is the line. i doubt it could even be called a line; where it once stood is now a deep groove in the ground, a watering hole for insects. tiny pieces of deteriorated candy bar wrappers and miscellaneous bits of trash decorate the interior of the groove. the wood chips are damp from a morning shower, each looking pitiful in its own respect.
"it's not what you remember, is it?" the voice comes from far off, more like a rustling in the wind rather than a voice. the voice was gentle but still loud enough to cause goosebumps to run up the exterior of my arms.
"no, i guess not," i replied, kicking at the woodchips. but then again, i think, i'm not so sure i remember this...
when did this happen? why was i not proactive enough to counter the falling apart i was witnessing? my line had been something i had cherished, even was proud of, about myself. i had gotten so mad at it for letting me fall away, but what did i do to stay close? did i do anything at all?
my wandering mind is caught offguard by the rustling, occuring somewhere off into the distance but not loud enough to hear. i search for the source, but the morning light catches the inner corners of my eye, making my head jerk away.
i ask the voice to repeat itself. my ears perk up, hoping for a reply. the morning wind bellows in around me, causing my hands to return to their spot of warmth in my peacoat. it's strange for there to be no signs of wildlife, but then again not so strange considering the dearth of anything positive for miles. the only proof of life are the particles of wrappers invested in the ground, but those could have been brought in by the wind.
i begin to think the initial voice was my mind's wishful thinking. it is completely plausible, anyway, considering my recent encounters - it definitely wouldn't be surpr...
"you know, you used to love this place," the voice begins again, "it was your safe place. mine, too, so i understand how you feel. it's a lot easier to draw lines when you're younger, right? this is mine, and this too. but when you are older, you realize that they taught sharing for a reason. the more you share, the harder it is to draw one."
"like an illness," i whisper, still watching the line of trees.
"yes, exactly, like an illness. at first, you are wonderful. hope is free within you; you are infallible. slowly, however, you lose the ability to make yourself believe. age gets the best of you. you remember the things that have happened to you before, and, much like an illness, you begin to feel tired. you start to give up. your body deteriorates. you start to fade away."
Monday, August 22, 2011
steady, ready, breathe
quiet
brain
source
of eternal
thumping
conundrum
craziness
insecurity
stop
steady
ready
breathe
prepare
sometimes for the worst
but mostly for the best
(it's always been the worst
that happens
or maybe
that's just the way it feels...)
heart races
breathing fast
fever inducing
sweating lasts -
oh to be bothered
by the bother
of bothering myself
over the bothers
that plague
my brother
pause
steady
ready
breathe
brain
source
of eternal
thumping
conundrum
craziness
insecurity
stop
steady
ready
breathe
prepare
sometimes for the worst
but mostly for the best
(it's always been the worst
that happens
or maybe
that's just the way it feels...)
heart races
breathing fast
fever inducing
sweating lasts -
oh to be bothered
by the bother
of bothering myself
over the bothers
that plague
my brother
pause
steady
ready
breathe
struggling to say what i mean:
writ
ersb
lock
is a real
debbie downin'
piece of work
when you feel like
you have a lot to say.
like,
(academic default:
the word "like"
is a filler
and should never
be used --)
rearrage...
such as,
when i am
thinking about
all of the times in my life
your presence
would have been much better
than the presence i was given
and how
as much as i want to believe you
sometimes i wonder
if maybe someone loved
you first
and maybe one day
you will grow cold
and nonexistent to me
and for that very reason
i am scared
scared of the possibility
of being alone again
and,
don't get me wrong -
i am
just
fine
on
my
own
but
there's something about the way
you look at me
when you come home from work
and the way that everyone else
looks like a good friend
but never anything more
and i wonder where you have been
all my life
and why it took life
so long
to bring us
to this point
but fate blessed my broken journey
and yours, too
blessed the words spent
that meant
nothing
and the people
who faked seniority
and the cracked
and crumbled road
that brought us
to this
point
this quiet point
where i am more concerned
for the first time in my life
in keeping the placid shore
instead of evoking
the majestic
waves
ersb
lock
is a real
debbie downin'
piece of work
when you feel like
you have a lot to say.
like,
(academic default:
the word "like"
is a filler
and should never
be used --)
rearrage...
such as,
when i am
thinking about
all of the times in my life
your presence
would have been much better
than the presence i was given
and how
as much as i want to believe you
sometimes i wonder
if maybe someone loved
you first
and maybe one day
you will grow cold
and nonexistent to me
and for that very reason
i am scared
scared of the possibility
of being alone again
and,
don't get me wrong -
i am
just
fine
on
my
own
but
there's something about the way
you look at me
when you come home from work
and the way that everyone else
looks like a good friend
but never anything more
and i wonder where you have been
all my life
and why it took life
so long
to bring us
to this point
but fate blessed my broken journey
and yours, too
blessed the words spent
that meant
nothing
and the people
who faked seniority
and the cracked
and crumbled road
that brought us
to this
point
this quiet point
where i am more concerned
for the first time in my life
in keeping the placid shore
instead of evoking
the majestic
waves
Monday, July 4, 2011
july 4th, 2011
you, rearranging
heart pieces in the corner
of the room:
sweet green eyes,
colors of the clearest natural waterhole
wandering feet have ever
crossed over
a fireworks show
that starts without warning
on the side of the road
during the darkest night
a pair of arms
outstretched to wrap
around a tired, aimless
body,
a home when
everything outside has
made you feel
like an unwanted visitor:
a sight that remains
sweeter and sweeter
everytime i look for it
heart pieces in the corner
of the room:
sweet green eyes,
colors of the clearest natural waterhole
wandering feet have ever
crossed over
a fireworks show
that starts without warning
on the side of the road
during the darkest night
a pair of arms
outstretched to wrap
around a tired, aimless
body,
a home when
everything outside has
made you feel
like an unwanted visitor:
a sight that remains
sweeter and sweeter
everytime i look for it
Friday, June 17, 2011
primitive proceedings
'good morning, sweet girl,"
as i rolled over into the
uncomfortable presence
of three bags of bones
and fur, warm from the heart
presently pumping in each
of their miniscule bodies;
good morning is
my favorite thing to hear
when it is formed by your specific
tone and pitch.
the feeling of your warmth
enveloping me sends my body
into fits of undeniable comfort.
it is as if you are a magical force -
and maybe you are.
delivered to me when we needed
each other most:
i, lost in a maze of self-inflicted inferiority,
and you, left wondering the damage
of your year's first real detrimental downfall.
we became each other's best bet:
a bet i wouldn't take on anyone else.
your beauty is astounding,
a snowy mountainous range of
good intention and love.
the only thing i know and love:
my cure for bad days and my
hope for better coming ones.
mundane proceedings
sometimes life gifts us a hand
of painstakingly plain-jane cards
to remind us that
life is
beautiful.
that magic is real
even when we are not
conscientiously creating it.
sometimes just the task of
a chest rising
and
falling
can constitute a miracle.
this morning, as the sky
clouded over and the rain
pressed itself to my window panes,
i reminded myself that
it is not the hand i have been dealt
that decides my winnings;
it is the way i place
my cards
on the table.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
to hope:
because hope had never come to me freely --
always an unapologetic skeptic
finding fault in the almost perfect
turning the wheel
till it landed on the nail
that would eventually halt the journey
but hope came to me when i needed it the most.
when, falling down the rabbit hole
i was forced to grow in stature
and reduce in height,
when a talking flower bed
reduced me to a minute weed -
"a weed is just as important,"
hope would say, and i'd swallow
the cheshire grin coming across my face;
"dandelion: the tooth of the lion --
they call that a weed,"
(reminding me that the summer's sun
is only beautiful when mixed with
april's showers)
it was with hope that my internal grace
was restored. there has never been anything
more beautiful than the touch of
the undeniable creeping across my neck
as the sun brings light to each morning.
nothing better than the comfort trust,
honesty, and humility brings.
nothing better than hope.
from hope, my grace is fostered;
by hope and grace,
the mixture of your earth and my fire,
of the sun and the constellations,
of shooting stars and night skies...
only this can bring the true measure of love:
a grain of faith,
planted,
sown,
watered,
loved,
brought to being
and ripened under the cautious hands
of the most beautiful natural force
to ever exist.
always an unapologetic skeptic
finding fault in the almost perfect
turning the wheel
till it landed on the nail
that would eventually halt the journey
but hope came to me when i needed it the most.
when, falling down the rabbit hole
i was forced to grow in stature
and reduce in height,
when a talking flower bed
reduced me to a minute weed -
"a weed is just as important,"
hope would say, and i'd swallow
the cheshire grin coming across my face;
"dandelion: the tooth of the lion --
they call that a weed,"
(reminding me that the summer's sun
is only beautiful when mixed with
april's showers)
it was with hope that my internal grace
was restored. there has never been anything
more beautiful than the touch of
the undeniable creeping across my neck
as the sun brings light to each morning.
nothing better than the comfort trust,
honesty, and humility brings.
nothing better than hope.
from hope, my grace is fostered;
by hope and grace,
the mixture of your earth and my fire,
of the sun and the constellations,
of shooting stars and night skies...
only this can bring the true measure of love:
a grain of faith,
planted,
sown,
watered,
loved,
brought to being
and ripened under the cautious hands
of the most beautiful natural force
to ever exist.
Friday, March 18, 2011
while you sleep -
you, lying next
to me
sleeping
like the morning
will never come
like the sun
will never infiltrate
your
fire worm sea
eyes, glowing
bioluminescent lights
bringing color
to my
otherwise colorless
world:
the way your
chest carries like
the tide across
sandcastles,
proving
the second law
of thermodynamics -
that we were
meant towards
entropy,
everything with
a beginning
must also
have an
ending,
but you -
you are the
beginning
i'd like to see
an ending
with,
the bamboo
raft in the
Mississippi
i'd like to
travel endlessly,
the maze of
golden
sunflowers
i'd enjoy
finding out.
strange how
things like this
come from
the smallest
of motions,
like the movement
of breath
from toe
to head,
like the sound
of a smile
running free
in your
sleep
to me
sleeping
like the morning
will never come
like the sun
will never infiltrate
your
fire worm sea
eyes, glowing
bioluminescent lights
bringing color
to my
otherwise colorless
world:
the way your
chest carries like
the tide across
sandcastles,
proving
the second law
of thermodynamics -
that we were
meant towards
entropy,
everything with
a beginning
must also
have an
ending,
but you -
you are the
beginning
i'd like to see
an ending
with,
the bamboo
raft in the
Mississippi
i'd like to
travel endlessly,
the maze of
golden
sunflowers
i'd enjoy
finding out.
strange how
things like this
come from
the smallest
of motions,
like the movement
of breath
from toe
to head,
like the sound
of a smile
running free
in your
sleep
Sunday, March 13, 2011
this new one
sunlight masquerading
around your sweet cheek bones
like candies stowed away
in the corner of small pockets,
making you look like a saint
and a sinner all in one go around -
wild hair, the smell of the city
meets the country meets the
dirt roads in between -
two eyes meeting halfway
between distances,
two cheeks barely touching
emitting pulsations that were
never thought possible;
the absence of breath
in your presence
has become perfectly natural
much like the absence of water
as one nears the sun
is completely inevitable
pull me closer by the loose fabric of my shirt
breathe me in, feel my body warming yours
even from a distance
feel two palm lines running parallel
indicative of a beautiful future
around your sweet cheek bones
like candies stowed away
in the corner of small pockets,
making you look like a saint
and a sinner all in one go around -
wild hair, the smell of the city
meets the country meets the
dirt roads in between -
two eyes meeting halfway
between distances,
two cheeks barely touching
emitting pulsations that were
never thought possible;
the absence of breath
in your presence
has become perfectly natural
much like the absence of water
as one nears the sun
is completely inevitable
pull me closer by the loose fabric of my shirt
breathe me in, feel my body warming yours
even from a distance
feel two palm lines running parallel
indicative of a beautiful future
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
p.s.:
my wordpress, while painstakingly bare at the moment, will be updated soon with deliciously boring details about observations of life. you're free to read as you please.
http://thingsmycatshouldnteat.wordpress.com/
http://thingsmycatshouldnteat.wordpress.com/
the mystery of things we cannot see:
sometimes, a person we know all not too well
directs their bodies over fires at halloween parties
and sometimes what is left
is curiosity of character
and what's left to say? is nothing.
when you leave, your aura resonates
like a flame first lit.
dancing with danger/
playing with beauty -
keeping my mind occupied,
forming light over the horizon
as the all-too-glorious Sun
peaks quietly through my window.
sometimes, a person we know all not too well
directs their bodies over fires at halloween parties
and sometimes what is left
is curiosity of character
and what's left to say? is nothing.
when you leave, your aura resonates
like a flame first lit.
dancing with danger/
playing with beauty -
keeping my mind occupied,
forming light over the horizon
as the all-too-glorious Sun
peaks quietly through my window.
Monday, January 31, 2011
a blur:
there is a counter full of things-
of colognes and hair products,
a curiously placed CD and a tightly rolled dollar bill,
spare change in one soap holder
and a brown-speckled bar in the other;
a small collection of bandannas
and a few looming hats -
a set chaos of life,
transient and omniscient
in every Cell -
and in the middle of the chaos,
in a small cup,
there are two spazzolini de denti
leaning comfortably together in congruity,
and for the first time in my life
one is mine.
of colognes and hair products,
a curiously placed CD and a tightly rolled dollar bill,
spare change in one soap holder
and a brown-speckled bar in the other;
a small collection of bandannas
and a few looming hats -
a set chaos of life,
transient and omniscient
in every Cell -
and in the middle of the chaos,
in a small cup,
there are two spazzolini de denti
leaning comfortably together in congruity,
and for the first time in my life
one is mine.
Friday, January 28, 2011
old blog posts revisited II - january 28th, 2009 (holy date memories, batman!)
a year ago, but it feels like yesterday. my own naivety led me to you; i have no one to blame but myself. from this, i have grown more than i could have ever possibly imagined - at no point would i have ever regretted that. but today, i reserve every need to remember and every right to be cautious and heed to my own instincts. an abundance of curiousity isn't necessarily the elixir of the wise, but it can be the catalyst to (possibly false) self-revealing epiphanies.
my heart was scarred - my soul was bruised. with time i healed - with time i grew. i will continue to grow. possibly the reality of life is not that one can fully enter into a matured state, but that each is in a constant battle to choose to make matured decisions. with time and patience things are answered.
my heart was scarred - my soul was bruised. with time i healed - with time i grew. i will continue to grow. possibly the reality of life is not that one can fully enter into a matured state, but that each is in a constant battle to choose to make matured decisions. with time and patience things are answered.
old blog posts revisited - february 4th, 2009
insomnia reigns - consistently in possession of my sanity. nina simone reverberates in my ears as the horizon line appears dimly in the backdrop of my skyline windows. here, candles lit and leaving fragrant smoke behind, the breeze playing it's own melody in response; there, silence in the wake of shallow breathing.
i am imperfect. imperfect in the way that i will make you clench your fists in all the right (wrong?) ways. cocky enough to make one realize this but conscious enough to retract my ever saying it once they've figured it out. can't stand simplicity, but would die to live a simplistic life. contradictory in almost every way. love hands and collarbones more than anything else. a need for more than the ordinary.
most importantly - that i am a work in progress (not to steal ani's glory or anything). never believed in full maturity, never will. always the product of a constantly changing environment because one could fully never adapt to all situations with one consecutive idea. passionate. determined. sarcastic. imperfect. always imperfect.
but i am and always will be the fingernails you long to feel across your back, the voice you wish to hear in your ear, the lips you wish to trace. cocky - and in all the wrong (right?) ways.
remember, darling - don't smoke in bed.
i am imperfect. imperfect in the way that i will make you clench your fists in all the right (wrong?) ways. cocky enough to make one realize this but conscious enough to retract my ever saying it once they've figured it out. can't stand simplicity, but would die to live a simplistic life. contradictory in almost every way. love hands and collarbones more than anything else. a need for more than the ordinary.
most importantly - that i am a work in progress (not to steal ani's glory or anything). never believed in full maturity, never will. always the product of a constantly changing environment because one could fully never adapt to all situations with one consecutive idea. passionate. determined. sarcastic. imperfect. always imperfect.
but i am and always will be the fingernails you long to feel across your back, the voice you wish to hear in your ear, the lips you wish to trace. cocky - and in all the wrong (right?) ways.
remember, darling - don't smoke in bed.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
things you leave in my apartment
the scent that i gave to you
that reminded me of you, even before i knew you,
the remnants of half-watched movies
and half-finished cups,
a bracelet dangling on the edge of a piano key,
the summation of desire and pulsation
spilled across jersey cotton sheets,
a note written hurriedly, in pencil,
detailing the psychological advantages
of veins running so volatile in space,
of molecules breathing heavily,
your smell hanging sweetly on my every cell.
that reminded me of you, even before i knew you,
the remnants of half-watched movies
and half-finished cups,
a bracelet dangling on the edge of a piano key,
the summation of desire and pulsation
spilled across jersey cotton sheets,
a note written hurriedly, in pencil,
detailing the psychological advantages
of veins running so volatile in space,
of molecules breathing heavily,
your smell hanging sweetly on my every cell.
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