The way she underlines
her favorite parts in this book
says more than words could.

She never draws straight,
but scribbles little lines
that connect the syllables
in the same way
she etches her little things
one by one, piece by piece
into something worth reading.

I want to highlight
each beautiful characteristic,
underline with sharpie
so her imprint is permanent,
write notes in the margin
to ensure I never forget.

*m.w.

When the waves are pounding
and the winds are shouting,
trembling in the shadows,
you're crying out.

I will awake from my sleep
and call out to the storm.
Do not be afraid,
I will silence the waves.

Be still,
I crafted the oceans.
Peace, be still,
I set the wind into motion.
Be still.

*m.w.

If you're the moon,
I'm the sun,
hopelessly chasing night
but you're on the run.

Or maybe I'm the tide.
and as I taste your shore,
I'm ****** out to sea,
desperately longing for more.

I never dreamed of being
your tragic impossibility,
but for you and me,
love was never meant to be.

*m.w.

she carried just enough hope,
a little too little memory and wish,
cupped in the warmth of her hands
in broken hours of lavender
as her stomach quivered
like the mountains that grounded her
to a perpetual state of being,
of what she's told to call "home".

moonlight and stars,
waves and oceans
have all been used up
in other people's heartaches.

she missed the road, missed him,
missed "the platonic love of new"
not like constellations and ocean ripples,
but like Kerouac's typewriter
misses his caress.