Evangeline, on the soulless night of February, I continue growing my broken wings. I remain sentimental, wasting my tears away. When I look at you, all I sense is the growing impatience that I will never be able to sit with you.

Even if I bloom with these wings and my graceful tears, I don't believe you will hear my silent pleas and whimsical, hopeful yearnings.

I am a tree with seeds of sadness buried deep in the earth. A rotting fruit of desires. I could never be as majestic as you, chère Evangeline. I am eloquently silent, with my lips tightly shut; I am a crumbling mountain, and madness slowly decapitates my light—but make it poetical.

Make my sadness profoundly graceful. Make my body arch like the slipper orchids. Make me a beautiful yet distant star, Evangeline.

i gaze up at the sky,
to see who I am.

i sit in stillness,
to discover who I am.

i stand before the mirror,
to confront who I am.

when time stands still,
the world blurs,
my heart-mind asks,
"who am I?
why am I here?"

~
Restless traveler
sit still,
and look pretty
under the apple tree

the interconnection,
your milligram smile,
best in motion,
you run with honey

you pond and stream,
rivers in your mouth,
the deep taste of survival,
so few will remain, after
the pollinator

with dizzy spells in flight,
a promise flits away
from your swear jar,
you and your wings
mean more to me
than milestones
of osmosis

But is it me
you'll really miss?
~