I'm not okay with how things are falling freely without
destination.
I'm not okay with the subtle eye contact,
the gentle nudge of our elbows meeting without
the slightest hello.
I'm not okay, I'm not okay.
I'm living in my past without
clear view of the future
a reality without
truth
for neither exist
only does the present.
And so I'm here thinking about you without
work to tide me over.
Again and again and again without
peace.
I'm not okay, I'm not okay.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
Goodbye, goodbye, how I wish I said goodbye that night
when your eyes were twinkling in the reflection of another.
I watched as she slapped you jokingly on the arm,
as she laughed quietly like she were sharing a secret with you.
Goodbye, I should have said goodbye.
Goodbye to the old me, and hello to the one who flies free
wishing among the stars for something, someone, somewhere else
other than for the one who plays footsies with other girls
and misuses the word "care" as if it might bear truth.
Why was it so hard to let you go?
My disquiet was still ripe, I suppose.
Oh, how I wish I said goodbye
without explanation,
just goodbye
so that I could smile at myself
with a chin facing towards the sky
in preparation for tomorrow's sunny day.
A day where finally
the sun doesn't hint towards your eyes
and the clouds clear up so the blue no longer hides,
a shade brotherly to the tint of you but not quite so
so that my goodbye may promise more than your words,
"I'll miss you,"
yet find truth in my own,
"You're lying."
Adieu!
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
We gazed up at the blue sky
watching the ominous clouds dissipate into the familiar heavy blanket
that flowers over the earth after the sun says its goodnight.
The big dipper--the only constellation I can ever point out
with felicitous fingers and waving arms--burned and gleamed
harmoniously with my itching imagination and quiescent mind.
We spoke with wonder, amazement, grace as the stars flew by.
I wished for nothing, but that didn't keep me from questioning
what you thought about when the world revolves,
inching closer to sunlight and the next day.
We stayed up all night, beneath darkness and safety, and our hopes bloomed aggravatingly,
connecting our hearts as the morning wind blew ripples,
softly and sweetly, towards sticks and stones at the shoreline.
You can't say you've enjoyed a full day if you've never stayed up to see the moon's hello and its opposite's goodbye, the sun's good morning and night's farewell,
with heavy eyelids from lack of slumber
and a missing hand to hold.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 9:05 PM UTC
Today I walked into my room,
clean it is, for the first time in months,
and I couldn't help notice how the naked floors,
stripped of dishevel,
made my room feel vacant.
With the bed made,
the fluffed pillows no longer felt
like a place to rest my stricken face.
The carpet, cleaned and vacuumed,
seemed only fitting if a loved one were to enter
after I was long gone,
and once this thought raced through my mind,
I no longer felt accomplished
by my simple arranges.
It's strange to be inside a room that is built
austerely for me
when I have convinced myself
I am no longer alive...
a room that I made mine
with walls of purple,
its homemade curtains,
its hand-painted doorknobs,
bookshelves,
and dressers.
...that brief mourning,
I may have found,
is what it's like
to enter a room
that was once someone's dreams
and not have them there.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
If I told my mom who I wrote about,
or anyone for that matter,
or if anyone I even knew ever read
what I wrote,
and questioned who I wrote about,
I would die of embarrassment.
Instead of being proud,
of what I write
and who I write about,
I'm scared.
I'm scared that these are my thoughts,
and this is what encompasses my intellect.
These words are the kind that keep me at night
as I lay under blankets in the safety of honest darkness.
It's terrifying to let people read me.
In the light they might,
while contrasting obscurity,
I am willing to trust.
I am anonymous and that's the only promise
that's keeping me away
from hiding everything.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC
Silence is calming, annoying, deafening, and drives you mad.
It can be awkward, comforting, and sweet.
It's just what you need before the lights go out.
But as much as I know about silence,
and all its little paradoxes,
I don't know how to define our quietude.
What does our lack of verbality do other than push me to insanity?
Could it be the kind of silence that's honest and meaningful,
or is it disconnection that leads me to fall asleep
wondering who you are--who is the man
who's arms I allow to hold me close,
and how can I love him,
if I know nothing about his kinetic soul?
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 7:14 PM UTC
You spoke in whispers that night under the stars.
I can't remember what you said,
I just feel your head gently colliding with mine,
hear your laugh as you retreated back, apologizing.
I smell the detergent left in your thin clothes.
I recall your arms wrapped around my waist,
the tingling in my throat as I looked up into your dark features,
your green eyes focused on my lips, but never touching them.
I sense the burning in my torn knee from where my flesh hit the ground earlier that night,
and the sound of my sweet breath against the open wound to reduce the pain.
And again, your laugh, as you gloated over my klutzy behavior.
You didn't say anything significant.
No I love yous, no I can't live without yous, certainly no
you mean the world to mes.
So my ears only heard the summer crickets hiding in the bushes,
and again,
your warm laugh,
with my hands against your stomach
to feel the hysteria run through your body,
ending its journey as it greeted the air.
That was enough for me.
I didn't need promising cliches to feel content.
Your hand wrapped in mine was enough,
enough for a few lonely evenings
to look back on the memory,
and still feel you with me.
But I still can't recall a word you said,
that night,
as you spoke whispers under the stars.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC