At the back of the library
sits a dejected round table,
its legs shaky,
wood dulled after years of
seating outcasts.
This is my table.

In the middle of the library
sit a few rectangular tables,
filled with the kids who belong.
I watch their mouths move,
their eyes dancing,
dancing away from my gaze.

The walk to the round table is one of
"wish you could be us."

And I see him,
sitting at the edge of a rectangular table.

My legs become like that of my table's:
shaky, knees weak.

I'm accustomed to admiring from a distance,
but I want to grow accustomed to his diction,
how he talks to me with a "this is temporary"
and to them with a "this is better;"
his imagery,
the lopsided smile that grows wide when he
talks to the brunette on the track team;
his theme,
his purpose,
his everything.

But who am I?
Hunched over a book,
a knight at the round table.

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love—put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

The first time I tripped,
It was over the shoe laces
of a boy with hazel eyes
and Venus fly trap lashes.

When he laughed,
I saw a thousand butterflies
leave his mouth
like a confetti explosion.

Captivated by this winged downpour,
I sought to release every single butterfly
from the cages of his ribs;
Until they filled the spaces of grey planes,
which followed every cynic’s footsteps,
and pollinated every flower
of a dying breed.

My world became a kaleidoscope
of time and colour
where I could no longer distinguish
sunrise from sunset.

Careless of the clock’s limit,
I took its hand and spun circles
within the butterfly boy’s garden
foolishly forgetting
that neither butterfly nor boy
were creatures for all seasons.

So when the first red drop of tomorrow
fell from a tree,
The swarm of colours flew south
taking with it, my kaleidoscope lenses
and the boy;
Still, with his shoe laces undone
and his insides
a nest of larvae.

A Beast shakes me awake.

I am lying next to you,
and I watch your chest slowly
rise,
fall,
rise,
fall,
your soft breaths even
except for
the occasional sharp inhale;

A Beast  tilts my head the other way.

I am staring into empty space,
but soon enough my brain recreates
my cacophony of thoughts,
shredded wisps of what was and what
has yet to be.
A woman with honeysuckle skin
trails her finger along my jawline,
and I melt into her.
She is not you.

A Beast makes me look into your eyes.

You're awake now,
and your eyes glint with enigma;
They flicker with something unknown
before you look away.
You are not honeysuckle.
You are as sharp as each of your
pen strokes on paper,
crisp as a newly typed  narrative,
a Colossus of all that was
and all that has yet to be.

A Beast asks me if this is what I want.
He tells me he knows the answer.

My life is spent  treading water,
trying to keep my chin high enough
to evade the water’s cool grasp
that  traces swirl patterns
along the side of my face
and beckons me to come under.

I kick my feet harder against the feathery current.

If I tilt my head
I can see the horizon,
a faded pencil line
sealing the corners of my vision,
grey and smudged from too many attempts
at erasing it.

My legs go slack.

My entire body submerges,
succumbing to the riptide.
It throws a dart at my head
and all the thoughts burst out :
I breathe them in and blow out bubbles.
They tell me to bid adieu.

I do,
I do.
His children’s feet pitter patter
and I hear their laughter,
mellifluous ha-ha’s coming straight
from their bellies.
An adieu is too harsh,
too grating against the mouth.  
So I murmur a soft auf wiedersehen
and let the water fold me into its embrace.

sometimes I just want to
sink in the ocean,
with the rest of the stones,
and never surface.