an inconvenience is what the rain is.
it does nothing but forces me to fall in love with the softness from the people i let hold me. one after the other. love after love. i always listen to the rain too closely while i let the fourth lover of this lifetime take me in his arms.
he isn't listening to the rain.
he's letting his imagination run wild with the possibilities and scenarios that could take place in this room. my imagination runs to another lover who listens to the rain and imagines me too.
the rain is a nuisance. it falls too softly—the name of my burdens whispered against it.
never will i ever understand why my mother named me after something so troublesome.
And sometimes—I go through phases just to feel whole again.
I think the moon said something like that once.
a moon phase is 29.5 days, and this one is the hardest by far.
We say we want a garden. One that will be full of things that will nourish our minds, bodies, and souls. You take your pick. Roses, of course. A bundle of carnations.
"Lavender," I say.
It softens anxiety. Instead of a garden in our waiting backyard, I'd like to plant a new world inside of you. I'd pull back the layers of flesh that cover your bones and intertwine lavender in your ribcage, wrap them around your fingers, and replace your eyes with new-bloom petals.
A garden so full and surrounding every part of you. I pray they unravel the uneasy feelings in your chest, so that it may never tighten again.
He says that lavender reminds him of me.
there's a voice in the back of my head.
it's unfamiliar and my body aches to know where it came from. it sounds like a song that i don't know the words to but the music and melody are way too familiar, and yet still not close enough for me to remember. it's a voice that's soft and gentle. something almost too shy of a whisper but loud enough to wrap itself around my lungs and make its way into my veins. it's a voice i hear in my heart. a voice that is no longer a voice but a hum that's now a part of me.
and i still can't find it. i don't know where it is. i've been searching the ever endless filing cabinets that fill up my mind. color coded and a voice coated in something so smooth i could've easily mistaken it for honey. there's no record of something this beautiful.
maybe one day i'll hear it, but for now i'm writing in hopes that i'll recognize this voice as mine.
my voice is still missing.
dusk makes its way to the tip of my tongue, and surprisingly, it's beginning to taste a lot like you.
it's beginning to taste like sticky peach halves; of artificial juice dripping from the home of your lips. the mix of sugar and honey and berries from the garden of a mess you decided to plant inside of me upon your arrival.
but dusk dissipates and my senses are heightened.
i can smell dawn on your fingertips, and see the stardust in your hair, and particles of the moon still stuck to your eyelashes.
i know i compare you to broken constellations and the revolution of planet earth, but you are what makes up the chaos of my galaxy.
bless the universe and the way she's given me to you.
may we rest in what's left of the worlds we've created for each other.
i don't know if this is to myself, my old lover, or the charm of a human i've been gifted with.
i'm doing really well at balancing what's real and what's apart of my imagination.
and what i really mean is that i'm good at keeping hope out of my heart.
For: The Boy
i'd like to think myself up as un chrysanthème; the flower of immortality.
if she, in all her fragile beauty, can survive the bite of a french winter—then i know i can survive you.
in her death, i bloom.