You are sparkling, fleeting
As you ripple with the tide,
Smooth is the back of the current
To home I will ride.
When the world flips back
And I turn off the light,
Smile to the darkness
Of a world not so bright.
As my setting sun whispers along
To the flowing of your current,
Sing a morning’s song for lovers gone
And the day can break anew.
august 3 2012
I found you when the stars were high up on their canvas, blinking and fluttering nervously as they flirted with the sea. Your eyes were glowing as bright as the sun, surrounding me, so encompassing. Like a lover’s forbidden touch, those eyes, how they held me. And when I searched for an escape in all the wrong places, you held on still to me.
And as the iron waves swallowed the stars, as they tore down the canvas, as the water flooded our field and engulfed, defenseless, our bodies, your grip held fast. Our eyes danced as the stars fell around us. We jumped in puddles and skipped through the rain, the stars glimmering down with such maniacal glee.
We, too, were taken down with the stars. I found you lying at the bottom of the world, your bold eyes glowing beside the fire. You were smiling when you looked at me then. You never let go, and we danced on still.
july 7 2012
Cold water against my bare, broken hands. Truly broken? Or more of an internal crack? My foundation had, essentially, been split after mere seconds, mere moments minutes days months, mere years, after an ever-growing eternity of me struggling to salvage my conceptual unity. The water eliminated all illusions. Spread, it did, from tip to core to the opposite pole, my being lay naked, as if born anew, to be exposed in its true identity. It is rare for such liberation to take place, for it is, indeed, just that. A liberating experience, to heal in some far-off sense, to expose your truly broken, intrinsic self. It is a risk, however. To open such a curtain is to be placed upon such a carefully conceived display of reality. Tip-toed around a regal pedestal of your own humility. A tower, of sorts. Even a mere, cool breeze will send your fragile frame tumbling.
uncontrollable water stands it runs it shakes before us.
years it stays in constant lucid thrashing eager movement.
How they protest against such
far a distance.
Never has such a void been filled with such volume.
How it blinds
it scares me, so.
Together they sat in the front seat of his worn, blue Chevrolet. It was full of age – the leather warm and cracked, the strangely comforting scent of cigarettes and freshly cut grass emanating from each crevice of the machine, as if it were being desperately pulsated from the tired vents, worn like smokers’ lungs. Her legs were pulled under her as she leaned back comfortably, watching him in the driver’s seat. He looked back at her carefully, his dark eyes brooding over her face, studying each inch of it with meticulous care. What did he see? she could not help but wonder. What was he looking for? She closed her eyes and listened to the music – a soft rock song, a famous tune that she probably should be able to identify, but, at the moment, could not. She was blinded by one single focus. Kiss me, the thought was playing melodically inside of her – not just in her head, but vibrating and bouncing and rolling over and under and around and through all of her being, interweaving within her, repeating itself in some sort of torturous chant.
But he never did – he never kissed her, never touched her, just watched. He watched her fragile features contort nervously as she laughed, her eyes glitter as she told him all about her hopes, the way they could grow so dark and somber as she confided her fears in him, this strange boy from such a foreign world; he was practically a stranger. Who knew what safety could come from that, from entrusting such an illusion as he. The boy watched her lean against the cool window, her warm skin bonding to the frosty world outside through this thick, glass shield.
“What would you say if you could say anything?”
His words filled her; she did not know what to say.
This was not true, though. She knew exactly what she would say if there had been some hint of bravery in her weak heart. For, after years and years of disappointment – not just disappointing herself, but everyone who stumbled unsteadily over the constantly moving, unbalanced plane of her existence – she knew just what it was that she could say, if she were brave enough. Strong enough. If she were enough.
“I am sorry.”
He should have kissed her.