I dreamed you kissed me  and when I woke, I was unkissed, and alone.

So darling, kiss me now, kiss me like you did in that dream.

Kiss me with the lips you used to spit daggers and whisper secrets, and soothe souls.

Kiss me like the sky kisses the earth when the sun sets.

You don’t need anyone to light you up.
Don’t ever let anyone else become
your sun, you are your own sun.
I believe that it is necessary to find
your moon, the person that you
reflect off of, and the person that you
fall into special kind of gravity with,
but no one should ever become your sun.
You are your own sun and you must
be your own source of light and life,
because once someone else
becomes your sun, and once that
sun falls into another’s orbit,
all of the flowers you’ve planted
shrivel up and die in darkness.
You must be your own sun.

"Tell me the sun doesn't shine when I am gone." She said softly, eyes looking up, earnestly at him.

"But it does, my dear, the sun shines all day long. And I am like the weary moon, who misses your warmth on those cold, dark nights. "

She sang with a beauty that made the sun shine brighter with every tune that floated up to the sky.
But one day she stopped singing.
A strange little boy told her, that no one gave a single **** about her little ditties.

She didn't cry.

She simply stopped singing, and went on about her life.
She kept to herself and the world began to wonder why everything seemed so quiet.
Then the sun stopped shining.
He couldn't go on, making the world a brighter place, if she couldn't sing her songs to him each day.
One night, the moon visited the girl.

"My child, you know that the Sun longs to hear your voice again. Do not worry what little boys tell you, they cannot make the music that you can. This night will last for many years if you do not raise your voice. Go on, summon the Sun."

Reluctantly, she stepped outside, and with a rusty voice,  she sang as loudly and as honestly as she could.

And as tears rolled down her cheeks, the Sun rose in the east, with tears that evaporated into steam as quickly as they came.

And the strange boy fell in love with the way she looked
to him when she sang to the sky.

My dear, this life is as sweet as
warm, honeyed tea.
Why be so bitter, when all you
need is to bring your
lips to the rim and sip.

He was, still is, and always will be
my sweetest dream,
my beautiful nightmare,
my lovely monster.
He’s the recurring, fire in my bones
and the only thing that could
extinguish the flames.
He’s the thoughts that keep me
awake at night and the very
first thing that comes to mind
each morning.

He might be sweet, dripping
honey from his lips, lust from
his eyes,
fire from his hands.

But sugar is no good for you,
***, and wouldn't you rather
drink from crystal clear
fountains of love than


let sweet, hot tea burn
you again and again?

He was sweet, dripping honey from
his lips, lust from his eyes,
fire from his hands.

I know sugar is bad for me.
My head reasons, drinking from
crystal clear fountains of love
would do me more good than
that sweet sap, that poison, slowly
killing me, eating me from the
inside out, desire coursing
though my veins.

But my heart welcomes the sting, and
savors the burn as it moves down and
down and down

I’ve lost track of the weeks,
started
losing motivation,
losing momentum.

Or rather gaining momentum?

Moving like a snowball, rolling downhill,
all control lost, spiraling.
No doubt, collision, just around the corner,
waiting betting on my failure.
I’m not frozen yet- and when the snow melts,
I’ll either sink or swim.

I take back everything I ever said about the things I would and wouldn’t be caught dead doing.

I could never ever have known the person I’d grow up to be.

It used to be that the things that kept me in my comfort zone were
boring, but now, they bring me solace, and those that remain outstanding, somehow bring me the most joy.

I dance a very intricate dance between two worlds, struggling to find my place somewhere in the middle.

Somehow, I find myself teetering over one edge or the other, never truly at peace and never truly bothered enough to give this life up.

You asked me if I’d ever been to honey
creek. And when
I shook my head,      you
                           took my hand and led
                                                        me into the tall trees.

The river was
frozen over and moss
                                    hung like beards on
   the bare branches.
You said to close my eyes and breathe in
                            the world around me.
The nature, the beauty
                                      and the quiet of the forest.
It quickly became my favorite place, not because of
     what I saw there, but because of
                                                   what I couldn’t see.

I am so very sorry for  how sweet I must taste that you’d accidentally
let my name roll off your tongue, whilst savoring her.

Except, that I'm not.

Hot on my lips
the amber liquid flows
even with milk and
honey, it could never
be as sweet as you.

"You write so beautifully, your mind must be a terrifying place," he
said softly, though he hadn't uttered a single word.

It was his eyes that spoke to her the most.

She surrendered herself to the tears that raced down her cheeks and smeared the ink on her hands.

Found prose in the Rahul Bansal quote.

There is some kind of
soft magic in the way
striking the same key over
and over again, hearing the
same note over and over
again can bring a chill to
my skin and tears to my eyes.
Even if you only played that
key for the rest of your life,
know, that it has moved me so,
and that I will forever be inspired,
imagining what the rest of your
lovely tune could possibly be.

You teased and teased.
“*******,” I taunted.
You took me seriously.

"You are a breath of fresh air."  He said
     in a way that was unlike the way
                                   the others had put it.
"You are new air and new earth and
                                   you are the words that have not yet been
written.”
                            “ You are the beginning and the ending of
                                              a story that could never again be told.
You are as fresh as the rising sun and the winds that
                                         welcome it sweetly across the horizon.”
And somehow I do not feel reborn when
                                                               I am around you. It is like you are
                                                                           the
                                                           reincarnation
                                                   of some great ancient being, and
                   I am trapped behind the illusion that I am unique.
                                                My memories trapped inside a forgotten rebirth.
My words trapped behind
                                                pale yellow teeth, as if they are gravestones
                     challenging me that if I did speak,
                                                                    it would be the death of me.

You are no temple; you are a tree and that’s just fine.
Temples always crumble, but all trees grow tall with time.

You are a sequoia, with wedded roots running deep -
an ancient redwood with more strength than stone or concrete.

Trees stand tall through whatever weather comes, rain, snow, or shine.
Temples are felled in and out of battle, whilst trees remain sublime.  

Castles of men come and go, falling like sand into sea
What remains when we’ve all gone is the life in the trees.

Leaves color, fall, and come again, with each new springtime
Temples fall to ruin as empires of man decline.

The shadow man came in the dead of night
Slithered into my bed, curled against me, tight
I bid him speak, yet he said not a word
No face could be seen, but his breath could be heard

I felt his smile, pressed to my back
his wicked grin curling through the black
I could not turn ‘round scared to look on his eyes
that he’d end me if ever his foul gaze met mine

When the shadow man left, he rolled out’ my bed
dragging his feet on the carpet, like one of the dead
his nails scratched the sheets and scored the door-facing
I held my breath, til’ certain he’d gone, my heart racing.

I am calmed by the soft petals of the lotus
flower, the same petals of the same lotus flower that
rests upon the shoulder of my yoga teacher, whom I
see every Monday and Wednesday afternoon.

I am calmed by starting out in child’s pose, hips back,
arms out front, stretching shoulders wide.

I am calmed by the cool water that runs like a river down my
parched throat during our first break in the practice.

I am calmed by the soft sounds of the music that plays in
the background and the tiny thuds from the basketballs
hitting the backboard, in the court on the other side of the wall.

I am calmed by the turquoise blue of my yoga mat and the
matching towel beside it, which I never get sweaty enough to use.

I am calmed by all the warriors teaching us strength, endurance, and balance.
Warrior one: arms up to the sky, Warrior two: arms out to the side,
Warrior three: one leg held up high, and Warrior four: arms are spread out wide.

I am calmed by all of the cats and cows and tabletops and chairs
that we become, and all of the forward folds.

I am calmed by savasana, or corpse pose, at which we arrive in the end.
we lay on our backs, legs out wide, arms flat, facing up, and eyes close.
there we stay for what seems like an eternity.
Then, when we’re ready, we roll over onto our side-body, into a fetal position.
Then, we slowly rise up into a seated position with our eyes still closed
and our hands folded softly at heart’s center.
Finally, we stretch our arms out as if it was the first grand stretch of the
morning, and it’s usually followed with yawning yogis.

I am calmed by shavasana, the death and rebirth between classes.

I am calmed by the blank space my mind becomes when I close my eyes and just exist without a worry in the world.

I am calmed when we bow and say, “Namaste.”

You complain of pits and
wrinkles and dark marks
and shadows of old age.
You say that the shadows
of your life in the world
will haunt you for your
remaining days.
You are wrong.
You, my friend, are a Tonka bean.
Your outer skin is wrinkled
and darkened, but that’s just part
of the growth, part of the journey.
Inside, you’re a rich, chocolatey
brown, with flavors that remind me
of vanilla, cinnamon,
saffron, almond and cloves.
You are so sweet and full-bodied
and well-rounded and all I am trying
to say is that You’re so much more
that the skin on the outside of your body.
You have so much experience
and wisdom to offer the
world.

I’ve collected many, many
trinkets over years and
decades and I’m probably
dating myself by saying,

I’ve got more than Ariel
and more than my mom,
more than father too,
but you know whose
collection takes the cake?

Grandma Betty’s.
Why?
Because not only is it a
massive hodge podge of
things she’s loved, and things
she loves, but it’s also a
collection of things
that remind her of those
she loves and those
that love her.

So yes, I have trinkets.
Gadgets and gizmos, galore.
But mine is nothing compared
to her collection of things I adore.

I don’t know if it
was love at first sight.
When you looked into
my eyes, I just knew.

You were my twin flame.
In all our past lives,
in a parallel universe
it has always been us.

Flames burn
skies turn
souls yearn

sweet pain
one reign
twin flames

Love doesn’t come easy
It is a dogfight through and through

But once you find it,
you will remain changed always.

We invent excuses, complications for love
and romance, but the simplest truth is,
even though it is so, when you know, you know.
So many days are spent in the act of weaving webs and
tossing ourselves from one muse to another,
from one obsession to another from one infatuation
to another and getting stuck.
This just comes with it.
But the most exquisite truth of all is that when you
stumble upon someone who steals softly the breath from your lungs
by their existence alone, someone who takes you to another universe,
another eternity all its own, where you can do no more than sit
doe-eyed and serene, pouring over their every perfection and
imperfection, all the same, all in love,
you never return from it.
You have no choice.

Precious metals lifted up
from their watery graves
in the depths below.
Scrawled on their
backsides, 71026010.
Stacked, stored, arranged
in Venice.
The shipwrecked collection tells
a story of a slave who escaped
with eclectic artifacts, only
to be buried with
them beneath the sea.
It was all invented, orchestrated,
a fraud.

Unbelievable.

I lay here before you,
              u n d o n e.
And it is my greatest fear.
        And it is my greatest desire.
Oh, my darling, set my
soul
      on fire.
How I have waited for this moment, how I have yearned to be so close to you.
For you to be so close to me,
for you to see
       me
in nothing
but the      pale light of the
moon.

You blew me away, like a
                                   feather in the wind.
The very first second I saw you,
                                                   I knew there
was no way I could keep up.  You swept me
             away with your wild currents.
          When I first met you,
                      I thought, I was weak.
I thought you would surely extinguish my flame
  with the tiniest whisper.
          But you showed me that I
                   needed  
                        you to be stronger,
          that I needed you to burn brighter,
not because I was weak, not because I needed a man, but
                      because you were my
other half.

Darling dreamer,
close your eyes and sleep.
See the rain and the streets and the
silver buildings that jut
like silent watching giants into
the clouds.
See the coffee shops and the window seats
and the libraries and the guardian moon.
See the glittering city lights in the
evening and the dew-slicked streets in the
morning.
See the black and the silver.
See us.

The thought of you asking me to be your valentine sent butterflies up my spine and they went crazy in my stomach.

It's so funny, though, because you have been my valentine for so long already, and somehow you still leave my heart feeling completely and utterly enchanted.

Silver rings upon your fingers
fingers trace my collarbone
silver’s soft, but gold lingers.
It reminds me of our home.

Where fleeting moonlight filters in,
through old windows veiled in lace,
over sheets, and over skin,
softly caressing your face.

Then, gold pours in once the sun
awakes form dreaming far beneath
a cloudless, moonlit horizon,
and falls like feathers on your cheeks.

An endless dance of day and night,
like hostages, inside we stay,
‘neath rays of gold and silver bright,
with you shall I forever lay.

Like the veiled midnight moon,
shrouded in the clouds, I,
covered in your gossamer sheets,
still shine brighter night.
When it is only us three,
I feel most at ease, most at home.
In your arms, beneath
the gentle gaze of the moon.

There is a reason water is clear, and blood is crimson,                                                                                                             for it would be far too painful to try and see the truth in your veins.

You, my dear,
are very
much unlike
the rest.
Your antlers
have not yet
grown in
and you worry
they never will.
But the boy with
amber eyes
says that
yours will be
made of crystal
and not of
bone and
velvet.
☪

Velvet moon
rays cascading down
caressing so softly, your skin,
I could scream.

Dressed in nothing
but the moonlight,
wrapped in folds of silk and sin,
there, you dream.

How often is it that I hear you calling
yourself a good-for-nothing, useless,
unwanted, ugly, and a nuisance?
Don’t be a ****.
Be a vetiver.
Grow stems that are tall and leaves
that are thin with lovely
brown-purple flowers adorning them.
Be versatile, stabilize the ground
around you, and with your rigid stems keep
those crawlers out.
Provide for the animals and protect the fields
against those that are weeds.
Let your oils heal and renew, replenish.
Be strong and durable, yet flexible like the rope
made from vetiver.
Be a vetiver, child for if you are a ****,
you will be culled and thrown out, but
those that have grown themselves a place
within the world will thrive.

Be it time,
be it space,
no matter the distance,
I will wait for you.

Darling, toss your                                                             ­                                                                 ­                                                                 ­                                    hands into the sky
and let down the stars,
for the sting in
your bones may
always  be there
but wasps never
fly at
night.

I have once again, left
open the door to
my heart and
the wasps have found
their way in.
The fluttering in my bones
was not from the
butterflies.
It was the sharp sting of
falling in love
with you.

When he asked me why I loved
the rain,
the ocean,
    and the river so,
the only answer I had for him was that
even after all I’d been through, I was
never afraid to get back in the water.

You weren't made for the sun or moon
or from the earth, wind, or fire.
You were the kind that ran with the wild horses
and floated where the river carried you.
You were the sort of soul that not only
enjoyed the rain but danced in it like it was more
than water falling to the ground, like it was a ritual
and only you could thank the clouds for every drop.
You were the kind of soul that believed in vivid
dreams and the absence of shoes,
because bare feet helped you stay grounded.
You were as free as water.
How could you let yourself dry up?

He comes, she goes, no one every really sticks around much.
It rains, the sun bares its face, the clouds come back to steal it’s thunder.
Nothing is ever set in stone
Well, except for maybe human bones and Founding Fathers.

This is a poem I quickly threw together after I heard the line “Since when did my apartment become your watering hole of choice?” —Dan Humphery, Gossip Girl, S2:E22, 21:45-21:40. The last two lines are a play on Mount Rushmore and the setting, Founding Fathers, a bar that often appears in the hit TV Drama, Bones. In the show, Dr. Temperance Brennan, Agent Booth, and their friends often meet at FF for drinks after work. The poem is basically saying, “Nothing is certain, except alcohol and my favorite watering hole.”

She breathed with hurricane eyes and he fell in love with the way the waves crashed over her cheeks.

I will never forget the time you looked at me with sunset eyes, and
let the waves just crash around you.
They washed over your cheeks and swept you away with the tide.
I couldn’t help but watch as you were pulled under, like the sun below the horizon.

You know, that lingering
feeling of waves pulling
and pushing you
in and out of the sea
as you lay in bed after a
long day at the beach, that
is what it feels like after a day
with you.
Except with the waves,
if you forget about them for just
a moment, the sensation passes.
I couldn’t forget you, not even for a second,
and even if I did, I couldn’t shake the feeling of you.

Waves I
I can only compare her to
waves, because even when
I try to pull away, she pulls
me in again and again.
I again, I am left with
the feeling of shakiness
upon solid ground.

Waves II
I can only compare him to
waves, because no matter how
many times, I push him away,
he always pulls me back in.
Again, and again, I am welcomed
back into his sun-warmed waters,
despite my feelings of shakiness
upon solid ground.

I tasted
the sting of whiskey
on your lips as we
kissed, your body betraying
you one last time, it was saying,
“I couldn’t handle myself sober for this.”
we said our last goodbye, without
ever saying a word.

Barnacled shipwrecks are beautiful in their sundered glory.
Ivy-covered age-old walls are deemed charming and quaint.
The moon is mystifying even with craters that can be seen with the naked eye

Neither age nor imperfections make you any less whole.
Instead, they showcase your closeness with nature and authentic beauty.

No rest for the wicked,
and no rest for the weary.
My eyes become slickened,
dreaming of the dreary.

You’re an  idol, dearest lover,
promising tranquility.
Love in thee, I have discovered,
is paired with fragility.

Close my eyes to clear away
the noxious thoughts clouding my mind,
Though I would wish that I could stay,
I fear, I must leave thee behind.

Overwhelmed by serenity,
My sleepless nights, they come no more.
In the lack of your terrenity,
harmonious dreams, then are restored.