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silence creeping towards me
I think I have to go now
the vinyl will rotate slowly
dust filling grooves and memories in the empty room
breathe in
never again
everything is everything was everything
kiss the tears off your cheek
do not fret
nothing is forever
dreaming is existence
reality is gone
rejoice to your old prayers
reality is goodbye
It was a Wednesday, the most uninteresting of days. You had decided to go out for a walk to the local downtown thrift store. It was hot like the womb, and you needed something to do. When a arrived you see a bin, "ten cent books" it reads. Looking in it you are immediately drawn to the newest hardback book in the bin. It seems to be an autobiography. "You wouldn't want that," the cashier says, "no one seems to understand it." You are intrigued as to why. The page turns to 127 and you see something unexpected. Letters so far apart and strung together in the absent white sheet. You wonder if this is some kind of abstract/alt literature garbage those younger are into these days. Turning back over to the cover you see clearly, "myself and no one else" written in a child like sprawl. The authors name is simply bannered across the bottom in the same fashion. The book is dark blue and heavy- even though it looks the opposite. You are drawn into this book immediately, throw ten cents on the counter- and leave. Scanning pages on the way home, interpreting and decoding, like it was your first Nancy Drew novel all over again. The book whispers to you it's secrets. By the time you have arrived at your home you seem to begin to understand, yet you begin to deconstruct. Beyond page 127 was page 128 and page 129, and on and on they went. No real content or words were written, only ideas. The mystery of page 127 and all the other 127s had not seem to unfold itself to you. Maybe beginning at page one would help, you say as you flip again to the cover page. The book exhaled into you as the pages creaked. The first pages only had pictures of the universe and galaxies in black and white. This continued for many pages and stopped when the spaces began. the words began to unfold as you read closely, a few read "ideas" by page 80. There were a few key words, "universe" "idea" "self" "myself" "womb" "embryo." You felt a silent agreement with the book. Could one simply sum up their life into a few measly pages? People do not even develop a sense of self until they are a few months old. Time is but a concept, people think it moves so quickly because they simply become accustomed to it. As they develop and grow this becomes apparent, "life is short," but that is never the case. People start out as ideas, is that when the concept of life starts? You are not alive but you are living as an idea. This is as  opposed to conception as a beginning point. Or is it that you are always simply living, because matter cannot be created nor destroyed. You were simply rearranged to create a breathing body. The author and many authors were forever existing, their page 127 was all the same. Ideas within a universe. Ideas within an omnivores. Ever expanding. Their stories never end, because people will simply rearrange and expand as something new. The book had caused you to think, maybe it was all pretentious nonsense- or maybe something else. Suddenly it was midnight. You were so enthralled and intrigued by the half empty pages time had beaten you in it's own game. You placed the book down and decided to simply think about it later.  Because there is always more time.
  Jun 2014 isabelle isabelle
There is sea salt all over my hands, and I know I'm not the ocean.
So let's drink tea out of mason jars,
with cold porcelain shards instead of ice,
and let's cut our mouths on every argument we've ever had.
I hope you don't mind if I make a home out of you,
and I'm sorry if my spirit doesn't fit so well inside of yours, you see
I have been carrying dead weight with me like a terminated pregnancy,
and mourning the emptiness inside of me like a miscarriage.
Now it seems like I'm only giving birth
to the sorrow that my heart cannot hold.
Now I'm starting my mid-life crisis early, stating over, starting with you.
I'm writing my past into the sand, waiting for the tide to clean my slate.
So just wait a little but while I hold my breath hostage,
and I will wait for a ransom to come,
and I will pray that it doesn't come barreling down my door, looking like you.
I had known you in the womb
telepathically - or possibly a ghost
a lost twin or lost soul
(maybe not, you were four)
or maybe
all of existence and time -
as cosmic brothers
and my neighboring universe
or a shared galaxy
because when you walked in
my legs were crawling back to me
after a long hike through the seven summits
and my arms have paddled through the seven seas
to joyfully return to land
twisted and contoured
so painfully blissful to see the shore
and the meteors about shouted
from the sky in their tapered bleeding orange gowns
of eldritch scripts and manuals
rejoice rejoice rejoice rejoice rejoice

yet I cannot say your name correctly
(like an ancient hieroglyph yet to be understood by scholars)
I'm sorry that I cannot
hopefully you will whisper it to me
as I sleep
so it will never be forgotten again
For a friend
the empty space and atmosphere between us
is always bending
and shrinking.
the air we breathe is the same
the universe and stars
that hang above our stage
is shared.
my moon
is also yours
and the ancients before us.
if I called your syllables into the void
it will always find it's way back to you,
drifting and floating
along the particles and dust
that separate
cities states and countries apart
only by invisible lines
drawn in the sand
hopefully you will smile
when you hear
the darkness sing sweetly
your name
you'll know
I have a lot of feelings ok
you're the reason for all my morning toothaches, heartaches, long distance problems and sitting by a mailbox waiting for a letter. I still wake up at seven even though it's summer break- all my friends sleep in until noon. You sent your letter on Sunday, then why isn't it in my arms or is it just in my dreams? Or is the postal service just lacking or taunting me and wanting to laugh by a girl sleeping by a mailbox.

Before you left all you said was "I'm sorry," but you don't realize I was playing the first day of my life up until the very moment you knocked on my door. And yes I was born again the moment I met you- but you on the other hand. . .

I'm sorry too, maybe I just make you into a manic pixie skater dream boy who's supposed to get rid of all my problems and I'm so self destructive that maybe I cant be saved but I think you're my color coordination and your hand holding any one else's terrifies me

Is this a love poem? I can't tell anymore I've been by this mailbox for so long. Everyone always puts me by the mailbox.
"Just wait"
"you're too young"
"we are simply too far apart"
That's okay. I am waiting. Waiting an eternity for whoever decides to show up because I had crossed their mind. I hope it's you. If not, thats okay.
I'm okay
i have always dreamed of writing something about the beauty of nature and earth that would be so meticulously written and elegant that an audience would simply be floored by the sheer pulchritude in words. but i have never found myself so inspired by the snowy covered mountains in the bareness of winter, nor am i stirred by the golden deserts of the south, neither am i provoked by the wafting wheat and grassy grain in the prairies. instead i am inspired by the geographical grandeur of those who walk around myself. i am amazed by the intricately complex valleys and rifts on curves of humans, and the supple folds of their mountains and canyons. yet the truest beauty lies not in the obvious- no it lies in the crevices and nooks of people; the faintest subtle blue rivers that trace their every twist and turn that carry the life in them. it's in the radiant flower like colored bruises and blisters and cheeks in the cold. and in how the footsteps and movement of aging, and within the scrapes and scars that truly tell a tale for all to see. to be shouted for ages, full of sorrow and feats and of struggles but also of laughter and sheer joy that you could not simplify into a verse of a poem. and in the knobby bumps and ridges in their fingers and awkward joints- that when you hold them, they make you rethink how you have never believed in a god
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