It's bright in here and I don't know what's outside.
But I'm sure that it's bright here.
I'll stay here. It's safe inside.

chase the clouds away
anger in its wake
a hurricane, a storm
frustration takes form
let my rain speak
let it be gentle
but let the sky darken over it
let the waves toss ships
and let the wind destroy your home
let the cyclone
awaken your caution

but it's all in my head

If you think of a life with me, picture me with soap in my hair, bubbles lining the strands of my wet-with-sweat frizz.

Picture the tomato-sauce-stained plates with bits of pasta, scattered by the sink like the continents of the world when it should be just Pangea, one place, all neat.

Picture me holding the sponge, scrubbing the red out of the white plates we ate from.

I'll picture your arms wrapped around me, head resting on my shoulder, murmuring behind me that I smelled like sweat.

Picture me smiling at the honesty and then listen to me complain to you that we should get this done. WE.

I'll picture you rinsing after I told you to and I'll hear your whining about your tired arms and how you're impatient about feeling my lips on yours.

And then we hurry, we wash the dishes together and there is soap in my hair.

We wash our hands which go to each other's waist and then we pull closer and then your hand is on my face and the taste of your mouth is on my tongue.

And then we stop. We stare.

Picture that, PinkInk.

I laid out my promises on a blanket.
I chose which ones I'd make, which ones I'd break, and which ones I'd keep.

I pick one up to examine it thinking, where would this one be when I'm older?

Sometimes,
I choose in a rush, in a blurry space where liquid burns in my eyes, I ride on a promise I'm forced to cling to.

Sometimes,
I choose with wise judgment, I see myself keeping it until I don't have to.

Sometimes,
I make impossible promises, hollow reassurance, empty, delusional, and temporary.

Sometimes,
I make promises to you, ready with a puffed chest and proud smile. I will keep them all.

I wrote and rejected my own words,
I marked them basic, unoriginal.
I erased lines I never replaced.
I stopped making new worlds.
I loathed that I was only typical,
I hoped it would only be a phase
But I paused.
The pause turned into a halt.
It turned into a break, turned into never.
Then I wrote back all that I lost,
Stopped stopping and breaking and believing the false.
I want to continue writing letters.
So I will mix and match and reach my goal to have never been better.

Your heat and mine, in the spaces between our palms and fingers,
in the closeness of our tangled legs on the cold floor,
in the wholeness I feel after a long embrace,
in the light striking your brown eyes,
in the contact of your hand to my face, your thumb stroking my cheek,
and the world melts around us,
beyond the point of your heat and mine.