Somewhere there is a piece of paper flying over an ocean,
over mountains no one can measure or name,
over houses that haven't felt a heartbeat
in years.

It's a paper with your initials and mine,
a message to me from you.

And while it travels over magic and forgotten adventures,
I sit in anticipation for those strokes of ink
on paper, and the warmth of your fingers
with skylines in my sight.

i find myself wishing,
that history does not repeat itself.
especially not
on the anniversary of sad events.

since it was almost exactly a year ago
that tragedy struck and lives
came crashing to the ground.

almost a year ago, and i don't want to see
the tears and pain resurface from cracks again.

Is only as big,
as your brains capacity,
and your empathy

He told her she was pottery; a vase with grooves and cracks.
The patterns of the history she hid behind her back.

Within his words he layered in- like thread upon a loom-
The sweetest undercurrent to illuminate that gloom.

In certain cultures, he decreed, when pottery is cracked
They aggrandize them with gleaming gold to bring their splendor back

For they believe, with certainty, once damage has been wrought
Those tiny cracks, now filled with light, hold truths that can't be taught.

i am the poem and the poetess,
with irregular rhyme patterns and
dreams in clouds brewed from midnight coffee.

i am a prose neatly typed out,
handed in ten minutes after the deadline
stained with morning black tea.

what is keeping me from reaching out and grabbing my dream?

your A minuses, your rejection letters, your mundane home-works,
your beauty and size standards, appropriate clothing manners
your gender roles and restrictions.

you.

and countless other things that end at me too,
but i am too angry to recall them.