Tender, outstretched hands — a gentle invitation for the touch of acceptance, of which I have waited patiently for. I now not only hear affirmations of growth; I feel them too. Through the blessings of beautiful opportunities, I have grown fruitful, which I pay for in eternal gratitude. I seep into the earth, the trees, wind and sun, and slowly slip into a warm oblivion.

Amid the thundering exterior of redemption, and the pulsing currents encompassing repossession, I find something more gentle inside recovery.
A faint radiance, of which resembles an immersion amongst the tenderness of learning how, once again, to bloom.

The intuitive pushes and reassuring synchronicities have calmly, carefully come back to me; a gentle invitation for personal growth. With smooth tumbled aventurine and rose quartz held against my chest, I reap the rewards of universal, unconditional love, and abundant opportunity. Chosen through loving, intentional divination, I separated them from the other stones I cherish deeply, but do not need today. Once again I am reminded of the strength I carry within - that I am a soul with a body, not a body with a soul.

Very little makes me feel softer than the warm glow of candlelight; though this incident of loveliness will be followed by an inexorable decline - a humbling reminder that these moments are fleeting. I will neglect the idea that a mere gentle breeze holds the power to extinguish the light that keeps me feeling beautifully tender - I will not think about how a candle simply cannot burn forever.

My skin crawls in your presence now.
This aversion is painfully present,
deep-seated, inexorable.
My antipathy
I feel for you is
     pushing
back.

Grinding away the
rind of my rib-cage,
I will not let the disease reach my
organs.
My fragile lungs
my tender heart.

The veil of insects and filth
lifted
upon realization that it is time for me to go.
Weaponizing insect repellent
for the pursuit of freedom.

We held each other tight
as if we were scared to let go.
Soft remarks of affection
Wrapped in heavy blankets
in the safety of my bed.
A museum of memories
only you and I will know.

You’re pale year-round,
though you have a new warmness beneath it.
With complete faith in the universe,
You are growing beautifully.

I have watched grief hollow you out.
Your body is no longer illuminated by an open heart.
Since the spiders crept in
the warm, gentle glow has been
smothered
by cobwebs.

I spectate a sharp face,
once capable of temptation,
shift to an eerie expression,
In the afterglow of a flame
I can no longer cultivate.

As soon as I learned
I don’t need to hold anyone's hand
while I’m crossing the road anymore,
The heaviness
of the risks I never knew
not to take
conversed with me after dark,
they reside.

Time has generated an unfamiliarity with this space, and admittedly, I have not returned out of a diminished need. My bond with these four walls has been reduced to that of a tourist visiting foreign sacred spaces, seeking enlightenment in places where they cannot return.

The pictures painted on old white walls from light through stained glass no longer tell me a story; I only see pretty shapes, of which are reminiscent of a conventional child-like quality, where I can recognise alluring images, but do not understand what they represent just yet. This cathedral holds no new chapters for me.

I feel that my words of faith are composed by a ghostwriter. Although published under my name, they do not belong to me, and I can no longer claim them as my own. This journey was a marathon beginning at birth, and it’s time I stop running.

She pressed her palms together
and prayed to be desired with purity,
free from lust and deceit.
“What waits for me behind the horizon line?”

I’ve kindled my body back into the earth. She stretched her arms wide and embraced me tenderly. I have time to tend to my garden again and I’ve seen what it really means to bloom. Vulnerability, once cataclysmic to the garden, became the set of seeds that were worth waiting for. Welcomed by the soil, the sky and the clouds, my flowers and my fruits grow in abundance.

Sweaty palms and apprehensive affection; this is the way I loved you. Learning to fall and falling, falling hard. Maybe it’s just me but I hope you’re falling too. My palms have been held shut for a while but I think I’m learning to open them again.
Naked trust, a newly found intimacy. An unearthed sacred romance, softly shaped by sensuality and tenderness. I hold an incessant desire for more time, always for more. This is the way I loved you.

For the price of patience
she was gifted with the opportunity to heal,
and received a foreign feeling in return for her strength;
the type of love
she had dreamt of.

Part one

We were weightless.
From dawn till dusk
Racing on our bikes
We had only just learned to ride.
Pretending time was infinite
and tomorrow was a promise;
We lived on wheels.

Part two

I later learned independence.
I cooked my own dinners
walked to school
And I made my bed in the morning
because despite what it was like at the time,
It made everything feel a little less messy.
Maybe I’m not so weightless anymore
and maybe you’re not either.

I could almost feel the waves
swallowing me whole,
Hours reserved for dreaming
spent terrified.
What if a tsunami comes while I’m sleeping?  
I have never known what it is like
to not fear what
I cannot control.

I have long craved the embrace of a noble figure; to be tenderly kindled by radiant, warm hands to a gentle bloom. Throughout my incessant yearning for more, my search has grown static. I maintain a mild position with perfect execution as I cling to soft, old feelings that can only be found within my own nostalgia. Replaying a pure melody from memory, the small sections in which I cannot recall nor predict a resembling sound invoke a deep sourness; a resentment toward the newly forgotten patches. This steady development is out of my hands, and its inevitability will not shift from my resistance.

Having unlearnt compromise, she is released from the burden of consideration of sin. The veil has been lifted and she now holds the gentle, irresistible charm of an enchantress. Stretch marks decorating her thighs, the personal marks her body carries represent stories that she will never tell, a symbol of the binding of her body and soul. A deep beauty of which will remain faithful to her over time; she is evergreen.

Did it shake you the way it shook me?

An arcane dialect we both learnt in that era,
and over those months
we spent calling each other
‘mine’
that feeling I had for you became no longer arcane
but all too common.
It grew outdated.

Did it shake you the way it shook me?

Perhaps the exciting feeling of newness masked our deep incompatibility.
Following the first kiss
the feeling grew
stale between us;
it was no longer special.
I was no longer yours
and you were no longer mine.
A feeling I have found in lovers after you,
though surely new.
Different,
better.

Why did we stay?

Did it shake you the way it shook me?

Misfortunes in
misplaced desire
misplaced passion
have taught me that
It’s okay to ask for more than pretty and kind,
That I do not have to hurt because our hearts don’t reflect.

Did it shake you the way it shook me?