you are a star, surely past your name;

and that is me: I am born of dust, you of light.

if I am being honest with myself for a moment,
all I want is to kiss you now.
I was too afraid to know it.

Distance has made me look back

did I ever tell you what I saw?
she was there, sitting, still and blush, looking like she had been shot and she was frozen in the moment the arrow had pierced her.
she was chained to the world, while her heart wandered below.

and did i tell you the things I would hear?
nothing. silence. in the air, there was nothing. I swear if I placed my ear against her chest, I'd hear nothing but the begging of her vessels to cease their tiresome beating.

what I tasted?
the breath of her lips was from that of a stilled lung and dry lips. stale and pale as a ship that sails over tides and beneath wales of a frail moon.

touch?
I could touch nothing around her, or she would shatter. The wind was like a hammer to a nail in glass. The utterance of a single songbird would echo into her grey eyes and boil her to dust. Not magic, but a curse.

scent?
it smelled of lilies, and nostalgia. and each memory was a traitor which made her question, "How could I ever have trusted you?" For memories are blossoms one happy moment but bruises the next dreadful one. Often, we forget sunshine when it rains. Often it is when thunder strikes that we cower in the absence of blue.

Much to think
much to feel
too much to know
much to conceal.

Places to hide
places to cower
places for time
places of power.

People to miss
people to like
people to know
pig's head on a spike.

The autumn grieves in muted colours
of life in warmth, stuck in twilight's hold.
Wolves stay away from the edges of the city
and howl in the cold.
It was spring the last time I felt real,
and now it has been half a year moving in phases, through to tomorrow.
I love the autumn, the fall of summer's empire,
the way I can be cold without trying, only warm if I want to.
All the hype about mittens and toques and sweaters gives overrated expectations,
because a short while ago autumn was the death of life, and winter its mourning
because nothing grows.
Is life seasonal? No, its always,
and I will always love you,
love the little ways you live.
The hermit in me is tired and malnourished and I am grieving for memories that feel too good.
Because life is swell.

I must have known
the cold face of the sun

Tell me different things thousands of times;
if I am melting in the heat of the sun, falling to the ocean, I should think it wouldn't matter. Even if you bid me peace.

I have lost so much in so little a time,
I forget this and this and this moment is mine.

I have watched you love
seen you hate
and I know the horrors
of forgetting to appreciate.

and I sing of my dreams
as if they are to be
though I am afraid
that forever caged, I'll be.

darling girl
be optimistic in your ventures

because how you see the world
becomes your reality

finally the snow
comes in a steadfast,
overnight blow

and we expect,
depend and know
that lovely quietness
of winter.

everything hushed,
more still and so
we whisper

I am selfish
she is selfless

guess who is deprived

She has short hair that sings with her smile
and she is still holding the hand of childhood innocence tightly -
I hope she doesn't ever let go.

pelicans remind the forest
of life beyond the wood

I gave my happiness as collateral

take care not to abandon me,
the blue things whispered as they fell apart in the terrible fog of forgotten memories.

Forget me not,
or if you do,
I promise to
forgive you.

--Can if you
really want to,
if you're through
with nothing to do.

spring is hardly sure it loves the summer sun,
till the wind is warm and fruitful.

one man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist.

burning in the cold,
breath heavy and thick like clouds
that keep us apart

She stood next to the mantle
her hair was dark, that's all I noticed.
She said some things to me,
I was afraid.
I dreamt her.
When I woke up she wasn't there,
but when I fell asleep, she was there.
Waiting.
A ghost.
The one she heard when leaving.
Well, pretty little girl,
Go away. Leave us alone. Stay warm elsewhere, please.
Next time I don't want to be forgiving.

what does the utterer give to the prayer?

girls in dresses
flowers in their hair
nails painted blue
naive and unaware

that boys in suits
watch them from afar
wishing they were brave enough
to get out of the car

so foolish, I fell
for the idea of you
your shadow, my dream

sitting as the scissors trim, hair falling to the floor all dark and wet,

I watch her twirl fragments into sections, watch the sharp, quick movements,

and I gaze, haphazardly, at the girl in the mirror

who sits within herself, makes faces when the brush pulls too hard, smiles slightly when our eyes meet,

and that is when I stop watching the hairdresser but her face instead,

that girl, my sister,

so beautiful and sweet.

flushed with emotion, and choking on the truth.

could say a thousand things, talk into a corner.

to be clear,
I love you. That is all.

the winter's first love was spring,
but they lost each other in the fires of July.

after some time,
they became friends

forever

When Innocence has a baby,
born in Spring,
they name her
"Loveliness"
"Pure"
"Precious"
"Her"

When you protect a child's innocence,
they see the world more purely.
When you are the cause of their guilt,
they are misunderstood.
But children are much less fickle than opinions and rules and adults.
Adults change the world secondly,
children come and sadly go
but they always know
a little thing called
perspective.
They interpret the world with what they know
and what they know is what you give them.
What they need is a shield, a stuffy, a friend, and an influence.
Save the swords for adolescence.

too high and you die
too down and you drown
too carless and you lose
too careful and you choose.

our house is old
our house is new
the counters were green,
the walls, blue

our house has plastered walls
and a brick fireplace
and an old, yellow room
coloured with distaste.

our house falls apart
and you fall down too
painting your heartbreak
into the blue.

you think I can't hear
what you feel and fear,
but it's all too clear
that you're falling apart.

"You're not stressed, just bored."
Maybe. Maybe she is bored,
hence her crying in her room alone,
hence her panic attacks hiding in the closet,
hence her tired eyes glimmering with tears,
She is probably just bored.
How can you say that, how can you say that without caring if you break her self esteem, without regret fracturing your heart? How can you say that when you feel the heaviness of her chest as she enters the room, sitting there against the chair with her pale complexion and that look of defeat in her eyes? What kind of person thinks that boredom can destroy a little girl like that?
She is not bored, I promise you.
It is much worse.
She is breaking.
And you just added a crack to her spine,
dismissing her heart like it was nothing.
She is not nothing. She is my everything, but she thinks that she is nothing because you said that she was bored and that the monster in her chest, feeding on her blood supply was a butterfly instead.
How can you say that?

too little

TOO MUCH

(I should just do my best and risk losing the security of their cares)

someone once said,
security is a prison which you give up your life for.

I told her not to stuff her mushrooms up the chimney.
Not to brew any potions.

Here I am, stuffing my chimney and downing elixirs.
Elixirs that aren't even mine.

I heard you in the shallow waves
whispering to me.

I do not speak the language
of the ever changing sea.

I wade into the waters,
now they sift so steadily

looking for the anchor or
the other half of me.

I am a cat.
Curiosity has killed me.

there is anger in me and I have smothered it for so long.

I'll be in love when I can dance in front of them as if I was alone.

I'd rather not go to sleep
by 10pm,
or find my pants and shirt,
and just suffer in the morning.
I'd rather not organize my papers,
charge my laptop,
clean up my crayons.
I'll do it tomorrow instead.
I'd rather not think or feel
or remember how much I miss you.
Instead
I'll suffer
in the
morning.

you are so pathetic;

you cannot see your entrapment unless it is your predator's very teeth bared onto your skin

that is what she said to me as I kissed the flower's of my prisoned paradise.