i am saving words.
i find them in dusty corners,
old words piling up over the years,
and i collect them in my hands.
i look under books i wore from use,
between scribbled annotations in their pages.
in my journal i find words
i thought about a lot,
and sometimes, i find words in the spaces
that i thought about too much.
i search in the bathroom sink,
where they get caught in the drain,
and i work up a sweat to pull them out.
i search in places i used to go
just to remember again,
i am saving those words.
some of them i meant for my friends.
a few look like they were
for people a bit closer than friends.
most of them are for myself,
and i am saving those words for myself.
i am saving them to remember
the life i've lived thus far.

a hushed conversation between the leaves and wind
lonely crowing from cicadas at summer's end
bubbling fountains crashing like grand waterfalls
shuffling in the trees; scraps of nuts raining as the squirrels feast
girls laughing together; boys calling each other
in the distance, a deep growl as tires tread asphalt
and thoughts, blissful thoughts

a million miles i've spent
walking along the shore, seeing what kind of people
would wash up here,
were worth it when i found
an iridescent pearl in the sands
looking for a wandering heart.
from nobody else in this world
could a single glance
set my nerves dancing like fireflies in moonlight
and tug for my smile to dance along.
i've forgotten just how much
the sand has sullied my calloused feet.
is this what the fish feel like
when the warm ocean washes over their gills again
to give them life?
fervent, vibrant life?

i blink.
days spent in the library
gnawing at the bone of academia
howling on nights spent in essays
and finally lying down to rest
when the barking is all done
it passes in an instant.
i blink.
the incessant fluttering
the chirps and songs dissonant but
after a long day's work
the birdhouse still is so comforting
how the days have gone by
and so soon it will just be a memory.
i blink.
poem upon poem
upon day upon day
from birth to cocoon it grew
some poems later it took flight
there are more gardens elsewhere
its been ages now but perhaps
it will find heart to come again.
i blink.
the paws have learned
not to crawl on the piano keys
but to strut on them
the chords don't sound so accidental
rather they purr warmly
and echo even now.
i blink
and prepare for the world again.

in the heat of a thunderous twilight storm
like a child swallowed by fear i
clung onto my stuffed toys
i asked them if everything would be okay
if the sun will come out tomorrow morning
and the rest of the mornings after
even if the storm continues to brew in darker places than the night
and the rain pours but not from the sky
my little fingers held big fears but
i have to grow up
so i wont have to rely on my toys
and so i can properly grip those fears of mine

it's starting to feel hot again
the sticky summer sun and the
cicadas calling into the night like lost children
the cool water, the stinging scent of chlorine
and fireflies like faraway shooting stars
i feel something i don't quite know what to call yet
i feel like the sound of your voice
cool as the breeze under the shade
and i want to pitch a hammock there.
or the color of your eyes in the
mysterious beauty of the dark side of the moon.
for now maybe i'll just call it
air conditioning

i tried to sleep.
i gripped those dreams that keep
slipping through my trembling fingers
and wondered if i should ever
hold them tenderly and securely
with tumultuous oceans brewing in my eyes
i again begged them,
stay a little longer please
and if not then allow me to
cleave my fingers from my hands so
i don't have to worry about holding anything anymore
i really tried to sleep
but i don't know how to anymore