Long, long ago, my heart was penned inside a leather book. An ornate pattern was etched upon the cover, accompanied by heavenly hues. Crisp, ivory pages and ink as black as a raven's wing showed evidence of joy, pain, sorrow, and truth.

I would study the book for hours, fascinated by its complexities. I liked tracing my fingers over the fine details, my eyes danced over the calligraphy. And then I began to wonder if anyone else wanted to read my book. So I sought to find out.

I embarked on journeys and took nothing but my beautiful book. Every traveler I met was invited to read it, and I would sit quietly next to them as they leafed through the pages. I would administer the addition of their letters and lessons, hoping to personify their most admirable traits. My eyes widened in horror as they defaced its elegance. But I was confused and saddened when someone chose to rip out any pages and chapters to keep for themselves, leaving asymmetrical gashes in my most prized possession.

As a young girl, the travelers were gentle with my beautiful book. They treated it with great care and smiled at me with warm eyes. As I grew older, far more people began to treat the book with less respect. Sure, most wanted to read it, but some read only the parts that they deemed worthy. Others read with greed to exploit the deep secrets within. And others completely disregarded the book all together.

Now, the bindings are worn down and dangerously thin. The pages are feeble, threatening to tear from the softest contact. I dare not travel with it any longer, let alone even touch it for fear that it will fall apart in my own hands. It sits on a bookstand, accumulating dust.

I long to open the book once more, but I know that I must wait for the most avid Reader to be gentle with its contents. It is tenderness that will bring the most beautiful parts of the book to life. The Reader will restore its fragile state and add the knowledge and clarity that no other person could have taught. And as the new and improved project is completed, the purest form of love will stem forth.

Until then, my beautiful book will rest easy.

griming squeals and cavernous drops
catapulting into euphoria

i, the beat's marionette as
a grimy dirt cadence possesses me

puff puff , a stink is infiltrating
yet its sweetness clears a mind distressed

notice the Flying Ruby , eyes mesmerized
by the smoke cascading from my lips

******* touching and spliced hands
encompass a transaction of intimacy

Today entails a small bit of
day drinking
I'm clad in a string bikini
and a chilled beer bottle
pressed to my lips.
It feels fantastic
to get a little drunk
at 2 in the afternoon

And yet, it also kind of
numbs the Pain,
the Pain of feeling
like a complete failure
or vapid
or inadequate
in life, love, and green

I'm dwelling on my
most personal desires:
a sweaty yoga practice,
deep beats pounding through my Body,
ironing white dress shirts,
the feeling that I am a piece of art:
you can look but you do not touch Me

Niceties tend to fly out the window
when the tiniest bit of liquor
enters My Temple.
Completely aware of
my role as
sugar, spice, everything nice;
its a balancing act
between the good and bad
coursing through my veins

There is nothing nobler
than being Good,
but sometimes it is
Oh. So. Good
to be Bad

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wandered mony a weary fit
Sin’ auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidled i’ the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roared
Sin’ auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie’s a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak a right guid-willie waught

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Sometimes I don't really remember people
by their specifics or
characteristics.
Their hair,
their eyes,
their body,
sometimes even minds and personalities
become a blur

cuz
I remember people
by the feelings that which they leave me.
I am painfully aware of their
swift entrances and
immediate exits,
leaving me bewildered
as to how and why they
came to be

But for some reason,
I can recall
(almost) every detail
about you.
I remember
gleaming azures
and head-topped sandy blonde.
I remember
macrame, leather jackets
a confident voice
and a six-string gizmo.
I remember
your body: long and lean
secure
Electric

But mostly,
I remember
the multitude of feelings that which you left me.
Curiosity.
Understanding.
Euphoria.
And finally, disappointment.
Not with you, though.
With my naivety.

My impressionable soul
clings to the people who
captivate me,
and you sir,
were riddle and enchantment.
The ideal.
And you still are
in the way that mysteries tend to be;
unforgettable stories
of pure bliss.