I’m sorry that sometimes my fire burns under water,
that sense isn’t made,
and so far isn’t so good,
that what should add up, falls apart.

We’re trying to catch a million soapy bubbles.
No matter how gentle we go,
they pop at the touch
or float just out of reach.

I'm sorry that I feel both joy and discontent in the same moment
And both are equally true.
I’m sorry that one plus one does not always equal two.

You asked me what reminds me of you

And before you even finished

A thousand things came to mind.


Things as simple as grocery shopping,

And seeing your favorite tea

When a truck like yours passes me on the road

Or when I wear a shirt you've complimented

Watching a sunset or feeling the breeze

Reading a book I think you’d like

Going places we’ve been together

When something exciting happens

Or something disappointing

Hearing words you often say

People who wear glasses

Mangoes and pizza

Puppies and tea

Park benches and polar bears

Love songs
and people holding hands


People

Places

Things


Everything

Everything reminds me of you.

I've read a lot of romances,

And before I fell asleep,

I would write my myself into the pages, and fall in love with Wesley and Darcy and Aragorn.

She would catch his eye, and he would approach, and they would talk for hours holding hands under the stars.


I would meet people, who I thought I could replace the heros in my stories,
but,
when the part arrived,
where he got down on one knee,

I couldn't imagine it with anyone.

But now,

I see us meeting at the alter,
our house
and our kids.
I see my old hand on your wrinkled face.
Road trips and trips to the store.
and making up after arguing
what movie to watch on a Friday night.


"You know you're in love when reality is better than your dreams"

I think I might understand now.

Because while you're not perfect,
neither am I.

You exceeded all my expectations

Not only did you fulfill everything I'd hoped for,

but you made it better.
Because it's you. And I could never invent the way you surprise me with the way you make me feel.

               I'm excited and unafraid

Of
     the
            possibly
                          of
                                You­

If I could meet you again for the first time,
I would.
10 times over
And every time,
I would choose you.

If we met at the park,
it would be autumn.
We would see each other there everyday, walking alone,
and one day,
we would look up,
a little nervous,
and say, hey there,
and then, some how, we would end up walking together
hardly saying a word,
as if we had known each other our entire lives.

If we met at work,
I would say hi,
and you would ask, how are you,
and that would be all.
Until one day you would offer to carry my bag and walk me to my car,
and I would unlock the door to get in,
but it would hang there open, long after I planned to leave.

If we met at in line at the book store,
I would ask you what you were buying,
and you would launch into a story, describing the movie or book or whatever you held in your hands,
and as you explained,
your eyes would get really big and your hands would move all around, trying to describe how much you love it.

If we met as kids,
we would race up the slide,
and play tag,
and I would pretend I didn't like to be caught,
but secretly I did,
and we would hide in the wooden castle,
and make up stories,
and miss each other after we went home.

If we met in class,
we would sit next to each other the first day by accident,
but we would become friends.
You would be early everyday and save my seat,
and I would come just in time,
and when I got sick, you would give me your notes,
and when the other wasn't there, the empty chair beside us would swallow the whole room.

If we met when we're old,
I would see you greet the receptionist in the doctor's office,
and watch you laugh about something she said and thank her, your eyes sparkling and kind.
And, at 70, I wouldn't care about subtlety anymore,
so I would go sit down next to you and ask why you aren't married
and you would say, because I've been waiting for you.

I saw a shooting star
It was a firefly
But I wished anyway

I like going up to 9th level of the parking deck across from where I live.
I always take the stairs so my blood is buzzing slightly at the top.
My favorite is when it’s windy; the wind mixes up the sounds and smells and dirt below and sends it far away, cleansing the air.
I like looking down at the road that I walk on everyday, with the perspective of a bird, rather than a person.
Watching from above, far enough away that I can no longer hear the people's footfalls, mindless chatter, raucous laughter, see their expressions, their clothing brands, their incessant cell phones.

Watching them take infinitesimal steps across the street or cars take a corner too sharply just to save half a second reminds me that I too am an ant.

Going nowhere.

Doing nothing of importance.

Fluttering from one place to another with the weight of a jury on my shoulders. Believing that my footsteps echo across the world, shaking the ground beneath everyone's feet to cause earthquakes, when in fact, they are almost inaudible.

I know it's time to go when the lights turn on, reminding me that I can only stay removed from society for a short while. Thoreau returned to civilization, the Pevensies left Narnia, Caesar went back to Rome.

A butterfly lay dead in the stairwell as I hurried down. I wondered how it had gotten stuck inside and how long it had flapped in anguish before it fell from the air to rest on the ground until the wind blew it away.

She is gold.
    tender light hangs about her, enticing the universe.
    a few brave droplets escape their cloudy prison,
    gliding down to capture her luminous,
    before shattering into golden fragments upon the pavement.
A blazing furnace.
     she heeded not the warning of the winter wind,
     rather dressing in bare legs,
     their radiating heat thawing icy countenance.
A diamond among rubble.
    her steps choose their own gait,
    neither hasty nor laggard,
    while brief case and worried eye pass her by,
    her mouth yet curves gentle upward.

She soars just above reality.
An angel whose soles are not yet dirtied by the blackness on which the world treads.

I like you,
I know we spoke not a word to each other,
but you wiped the fog off the window,
while the rest were content to remain in stupor,
instead of watch the masterpiece of nature and men pass by.
So I know you aren't broken by the world.
Your curiosity yet survives,
you do not take your eyes for granted.

When the bus threw us together as it swerved,
My bottle clattered to the floor,
You reached for it before I even noticed it had fallen,
So I know your heart has not been deadened by the apathy of the world.

Your face yet retains the softness of youth,
your mouth is not hardened from disappointment,
nor your eyes wrinkled by experience,
even though you’ve seen hardship,
because one cannot live in this world without encountering suffering.  
You have guarded your innocence and your tenderness.

So without hearing your voice, I knew your spirit,
and together we watched the rain cleanse the earth until we reached your destination.
Good bye my friend.
Don't worry, I kept your window clean.

The wind that drove the crashing waves,
and chased away the stormy clouds,
caressed her skin and stroked her hair,
She knelt beside the sandy spires,
her tiny hands worked with care,
to build the towers ever skyward,
Many stopped to look with wonder,
a child had made a thing so grand,
Then they saw him, not far away,
gazing on her with tender eyes,
beside his castle standing there,
She turned towards her father’s feet,
and raised her eyes up to his own,
smiles spread across their faces,
and found each other in loving embrace.

As the pages fell away like drops from a roaring waterfall, she discovered the girl in the story was not very unlike herself. And she was reminded to hope in her dreams, however small they might be.

Even when it thundered and poured, the sun still shone around her because she made her own sunshine. She believed every second was better than the one before and kept her eyes fixed on possibility. People were drawn to her like months to a lamp and left full of light. But she herself was never depleted.

I wish that you were you but not quite you. Do you understand?
I like some parts of you but I feel I'm being cheated of the better parts.
Perhaps later, when the parts that make me laugh, feel safe, and see the world in a better light, have swallowed up the parts that drive me crazy; maybe then we'll meet again, sweep each other off our feet, and rekindle our wildfire.

And as she watched the sunrise on her future, her heart fluttered with anticipation for the next great race.

No one had ever cried for me before. But there she was, her face contorted in pain, red, patchy, and wet. It wasn't pretty crying, the kind who's tears leak mild emotions like sadness, nostalgia, or sympathy. It was utter suffering. And I cried with her.

Perhaps the bravest thing we can do is relinquish control and let the wind usher us where it may.

She catapulted herself out of the steaming water into the frosty breeze
Laying in the frigid flakes feeling the crunch under her back, she looked skyward and screamed, "I'm alive",

Her temperature and her feet climbed higher and higher and higher up the mount. When she reached the top, collapsing like a tired puppy, she breathed apace the wind into the the never-ending blue sky, "I'm alive",

As the neon peach sunset reflected on flushed cheeks in the hastily fleeting evening, she slipped her shoulders from their cloth prison and quivered with fatigue. And even though she gasped for breath and her knees begged to surrender, she reassured her tired limbs, "We're alive",

Walking in the unexpected sodden spring with pasty, sheltered toes, she stripped her feet and gingerly exhaled her foot toward the welcoming sludge. They met, and, with a sigh, she squished and curled her toes into the sloppy, mushy earth. The palms of her feet puckered and smooched the mud beneath and before returning them to their man-made prison. She thought, "I'm alive",

When the trees outside her window lost their color and blankets swallowed her whole, she forgot to let oxygen stretch to her fingers and toes, but the voice that kept her company repeated, "You're alive, You're alive, I'm alive",

And when she threw the pills and her past out the window, her heart beat tapped her on the shoulder and reminded her, "You're still alive".