They say we’re attracted to things that we love. The things that our soul light up for. I’ve always been attracted to the sun. Sitting on the front steps of my home during the summer, staring at the pavement and watching the heat rise from the surface. To think that the same ground that withstands the pelting rains, pounds of snow,  being covered by the leaves that fall in October, and the pine needles that are blown and battered across is capable of collecting and giving warmth. That it can withstand the dancing of friends, the wheels and ripping of rubber tires, scraping of plastic toy houses and water balloon attacks in the July. It can withstand the t-ball stand that my father used to set up in may, and the chalk drawings of April. I’ve always been attracted to the sun and to the pavement. I think my soul is one that yearns to be felt, to be interacted with. To be a bystander of conversation, a passer byer of a young child discovering their passion for t ball. A spectator of the first snowfall, or the last leaf to fall from the tree. My soul craves moments, big or small. Rich or dull, it aches for other souls.

Since you left i've changed
im crafting a body that youll never get to touch
earning the caluses and scrapes on my hands that youll never get to run your fingers across

I got a new perfume too
its no longer the fresh floral, but rather now it is the soft vanilla that fills my mind with the visions of when i bake at home with my mother

my new favorite color is the deepest and richest sage
reminding me of abundance and freshness, the life that comes after dark, and the beauty in the hidden

as the jungle hides her most prized posessions behind the masses of leaves and wild grasses

New voices are filling my ears
those of old friends are reminding me of the memories we have back at home
while strangers share their goals and lessons with me
adding to my library of experiences and wisdom

My bed is no longer against the wall but is now located in the center of the wall
because the sunshine hits the middle of the room and beams in casting rays and rainbows across the room arund 2oclock everyday

My eyes no longer desperately search for you or your face in crowds or when i walk downtown. They dance around, taking in all of the new sights, the colors and shapes that orchestrate the life that im living

Im changing and i hope youre changing too

Theres that saying
When youre born in a burning house
You think the whole world is on fire
I wasnt born in a burning house
I was born by the sea
Where the windows were always open
And the sky was always blue and the birds flew in circles and sewed the clouds together
I was born on an island
With abundant fruit and milk
I took vacations to foreign lands
Where people spoke in different dialect but with the same tongues
Where the sun warmed the ground different, and the air was scented with adventure and exotic prose

You weren’t born in a burning house
You were a gift to the burning house
Your first breath was full of ash and dust
You were born with a broken sense of trust, and a fear in your heart
When you went on vacations you traveled to volcanos and traveled burning rock and soot
You laughter was muffled by the coughs from your smoke filled lungs
And your eyes burned from the smoke that was constantly around you

Smoke and fire spreads faster than clean air and water
Friend and foe, fire and water
We were born to cross paths
And forced to blaze against eachother
You threw fire at me, and I defended myself with my waves
We had moments of calm however
Where my cold tides were warmed by your flames
When your blaze caught to your surroundings
I shamelessly shielded you and helped to reduce the damage

Friend and foe, fire and water
We needed eachother to survive
But our paths weren’t made to fight forever
Eventually we turned backs and walked in opposite directions
I survived and fought on my own before you entered
And I know that I can do it again

i went out last night for the first time since letting you go
i found myself searching for the tone of your voice in everyone around me
and the soft smile of yours on all of the faces that surrounded me
i listened for your laugh, but the air was empty
the smell of your cologne wasnt lingering
nor was your touch on my skin

i miss you
but i know that youre only going to hurt me

the timing of time for you and i was off

maybe the universe was trying to tell us something
or maybe it was trying to save us

i was never able to love myself
so i loved you

i was never able to care for myself
so i cared for you

i was never able to speak for myself
so i helped you arrange your syllables

i was never able to see through the lens
so i looked on with you

i was always able to feel the pain
you were never able to fix it

i was always able to feel your pain
but you never felt mine

i frantically search for your hand in the darkness
but when i make it to the other side
i know ill be able to hold on forever

meeting you was like learning a new dance
uncertain and unsteady at first
but eventually learning the steps, and keeping to the beat

as time went on however
the dance became muscle memory
no more passion, no more muse
just an empty, mechanical response, series of ups and downs

our love was a dance
slowly losing its soul

it leaves me feeling empty
as we are just two skeletons dancing to an mechanical, automatic rhythm

I handed you the scissors
And expected you to cut holes into my battered wings
Instead you took the napkin from the table
And carefully cut holes
Unfolding slowly
The snowflake that hid in the folds

Snowflakes over tattered wings

you are now a memory to me
and i dont know
if the thought of that

makes me or breaks me

I hate writing
Because what is on paper can be seen
What if they don’t like
When they see the real me

you like the attention
and being the center of the world
but when it comes to pointed fingers
you never let them be waved towards you
you always redirect them to someone else
because you were not made
to understand the power of a pointed finger

i stand in front of the mirror
making faces at myself

poking at my stomach
and pinching my sides

i run my fingers down my stretch marks
and my eyes trace the marks on my wrists and ankles

i am still alive
but i feel very much dead

when i look at myself in the mirror
am i seeing the real me
or an illusion

i think that the most damaged people in the world
are the kindest
and the softest

because they know
that scabs can be picked
and you can bleed

i am gentle
because i have cuts that are hidden
but you never see them bleed

im "the happy friend"

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to rely on drugs for happiness

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to wake up everyday, and wish they still were dreaming

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to be the mediator of family fights

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to avoid looking at themselves at certain angles

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to constantly **** in their tummy- making sure they're still paper thin

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to lay in bed- tears welling in their eyes

the "happy friend" isnt supposed to feel the constant weight of the universe resting on their chest

why would i feel that

after all

i am the "happy friend"

my 5 seconds of fame will be when my face is printed on the page of my yearbook

5 seconds of reflection and admiration, until the eye moves to look at the square next to me.

5 seconds that were so hard to earn, but so easy to spend.

and the supercut played in my head
a supercut of only the finest moments
the sunsets that had flamingo pinks
and fierce fire reds

a supercut of
the nights where the sky
seemed to speak to me
with the stars forming
a spiritual connect the dots

a supercut of
the early mornings
where the birds and their
songs reminded me
of a carefully orchestrated
song where the conductor
sways and drifts with the sound
as it fills his ears and the room

a supercut that reminded me
that just because it is over
does not mean it is lost

a supercut that urges me
to go out and collect
more moments
for the next
supercut

and i will make new memories by
mixing fresh januarys with blossoming aprils
and
sprouting marches will be tossed with hearty novembers
and
a dash of ambition and a handful of benevolence

twenty shots
and on my journey across the planet i would use nineteen
i would capture towers and churches
trees and flowers
mountains and tigers
but i would save the last one for you
because your eyes cannot be found at a magazine stand
on mainstreet or
in a coffee shop on a saturday morning