We built our house at the base of the mountain.
When the tremors began, we ignored them.
When fire and ash rained from the sky
we covered our heads but did not run.
We knew in our hearts: this is how it ends.
When they come in a hundred years
they will see green grass and purple blossoms.
They will know nothing of the pain
save for the hollows of our bodies.

Tattoos are scars
we choose to keep--
words we want to carry,
memories we fear losing;
ink and needle are
the self-inflicted stinging:
the pain we choose to feel.
art on our bodies--
out of our minds--
something
real.

Why is saying goodbye
so easy
when every word
every syllable
every sound
of "hello"
was so
*******
hard?

If someone asked me
how I would describe
color,
I would tell them this:

Yellow
is stepping outside in spring.
It is the welcoming
embrace of sun.

Green
is lying in a field of grass.
It is the rustle of leaves
in the summer breeze.

Blue
is standing in the light rain,
and the sweet birdsong
when the sky opens up.

Red
is the feeling when your hands brush;
her lips on yours, breathing the same air.
It is the fire in two hearts that beat together.

I feel the feather-light touches
Of imaginary fingers
As they creep across my shoulders.
Longingly,
I pretend that the pressure
Across my chest is the security
Of your arms holding me.
But really, it is the constricting
Bind of loneliness
Gripping me tightly.

I clung to you like a lifeline-
A floating buoy in a violent sea
But when I let go of you
Into the deep, deep
Blue,
I found that I had gills—
And I could breathe.