between a detached head and heart,
the lonely LED light goes low.
We immerse ourselves into conversation;
I listen to every word,
drizzling off your parted, port wine stain lip.
something about rain,
something about why it sucks to be you,
but all I can contemplate
is how such a beauteous being could ever complain
when everything they do
secretly makes the world want to pause,
not seeking more momentum to complete another rotation
even when there isn’t any force it has to work for,
just to witness a killer mirage of you—
as a tempestuous piece of art assembled in shambles.
Sometimes thinking about you,
can make me wonder about whether I made the right choice.
Is it better to let the veins grow tall to the clouds,
or should I dig them deeper into Earth
where they’ll be secure enough from foreseeable cruel thorns?
fairy dust peonies,
be wed the pastry, angel flakes of May.
dew light glistens.
Jumping into action,
a herd of petite footprints emerge from the backwoods,
shedding hints of thin-skinned silver and misty fur coats.
Their hind legs propel forward—swift, but smoothly—
pursuing another flight across snow dune fields tapped
in wintry twists, sparing them edacious predator scrutiny
down rolling twin hills.
next to the undergrowth,
we grew up from the soil,
shooting high to the sun,
making a mess of our lives in the turmoil,
even when the real incisions haven’t begun.
Soft grasses sway the grounds
that summer our feet.
Autumn never carried us too far,
from whatever we run off to seek.
We coerce our hands to clamber the evergreen,
so we’ll never stop blooming fantasies
consumed with our cold tears that fuel the dead spring’s saplings.
We’re someday’s dreamers;
I’m sure someday we’ll be believers,
but not today
because we’re aren’t finished yet
coming up with scenarios for yesterday’s festivities.
The losses, the pain, the winnings, and the shame
turn golden brown the longer they stay in the sun,
while we wish for better tomorrows
and summon the youth that stung
our bodies grim into a
period known as
Turning on the string lights inside your head,
a shade of lilac gloom begins to glow.
December speaks with hushed tones,
carrying the pressure of your pondering.
You reminisce about the new year in a new light:
every memory, every spark and somber cloud.
Racing thoughts insulate your head of whether
you’ve accomplished enough to please the world.
The waves of your pomegranate drink
don’t give you the answers to questions you crave.
Yet, you stare into your glass nevertheless,
looking for some kind of solace.
One minute until midnight,
you still feel stuck upon a land far, far away.
As the curtains close on the last fifty-two weeks, you smile
raising your glass, knowing that it will somehow be okay.
Happy New Year everyone!! 🎆😀🎉
into a mess,
I’ll be with you
in the thick of the adventure,
in the bundle of fulsome threads.