see what I see,
walk in my shoes.
go down the paths I do
when the road winds
in forever opposite
directions.

feel what I feel,
embrace the earth,
the winds,
the simple touch
of water upon
my skin.
let the feelings I feel,
pain,
restriction,
joy,
pleasure,
and despair.
let them sink beneath
the skin,
into the chill
of my veins
the individual
cells connecting the tip
of my fingers
to your very touch.

go back to the second line
of the first verse:
walk
in
my
shoes.
how can you not see
the flowers
ceasing to exist
without the help of the
lowly bumblebee?
how can my heart
not flutter without your
existent touch?

but you don't see what I see,
you're not feeling what I'm feeling,
you say you care about the bumblebee
when its your flowers in the garden.
so my flowers sit,
alone,
wilted and waterless
in an unattended garden.
with me in the middle,
kneeled down,
the autumn chill
blowing us all away.

order.
I crave order,
the need to straighten
the crooked paintings on the walls
the urge to going for a walk
breathing in the air
of today,
looking back from the mistakes
the wrong turns
the wrong words of yesterday
and simply exist.

i want life,
one that is messy
but can be vacuumed away
with conversations and watching sitcoms
just to see our envelopes of stress
the complications of work life
unfold behind locked doors and dimmed
lights.

I want an "us."
A genuine "us,"
where every smile is authentic
not just a cover for words that
could have been left unsaid
where tears have not been blotted away
with an expensive concealer
and cheap wine.
I want people to look, not stare.
I don't want them to be "us"
but to look at themselves and
see the difference.

self-love,
the kind where
you see, in real time
not locked on a social media
screen.
the one where waking up
is an embrace of gratefulness
and not a separation
from woman and bed.
the one where my feelings,
my intense emotions
can be harnessed into
fitness centers
and highly caffeinated teas.

I imagine,
in the dead of night
in my dreams
or simply on a walk home
from work... you.
I imagine how we blossom from this
how we sit quietly in a lit room
hair tousled
glasses firmly against my nose
as we discuss our monthly budget,
what we did at work today
watch our comfort show
as the time passes
before we sleep.
I imagine,
every day
something as simple
as the air we breathe
in a life we choose,
together.

hold me.
the way you do a teddy bear,
fill my eyes with childlike
wonder
the purest content
without explanation.
squeeze me,
as you look into my eyes
and say
but three words:
"i love you"

keep me.
the way you do a teddy bear,
put me on the highest shelf
admire the way
buttons simply exist
on my shirt.
go on about your day
thinking of me
with the intent
of wanting our eyes
to meet
yet again.

I cannot
make the clouds push away the rain.
I am not responsible for the sun that shines
afterwards.
I am human,
I do not command the tides and winds
to bring fresh flowers in spring.

I cannot
draw the arrows towards the lovers
nor will I intervene in their paths.
I will not push the heavens together
the way the myths once did before.
I should not be able to feel disdain
as easily as I am to breathe.

I cannot,
no,
I will not
force you to love me.
I am not able
to lock my heart
in a display case
and open it
when convenient.

what I am,
dear reader
and what I can be
is a lover.
I can be a wife.
I can be what you desire
even if the picture
is not perfectly mirrored.

what I will be,
dear reader
is patient.
still.
like the cascades
of color
in Renaissance paintings.

I am a good person,
a loving woman
and a patient one.

though the thought
the mere mention
of putting what I want
and what you want
in a jar,
scrambled together
bobbing for the apples
of compromise
makes me feel cold
and incapable of
understanding,
I can do it,
dear reader.

so I draw myself back,
to the "I cannot"
one last time
and say in one
breath:
"I cannot get lost in myself."

better lock your doors
past the vibrated floors
of an argument gone wrong in bed
journey into the world
of the introverted bird
for some things are better left
unsaid.

unleashing your anger
piled into relationship danger
for not slipping the lock and key
best to lock it up tight
for things unsaid just might
be better to swallow down
in liquor and internal winery.

partake in these writings
where irritation comes biting
like fire ants in the summer breeze
"better left unsaid" flows with ease
another glass til it becomes more exciting.

just like that you're officially sunk
reserved, considerate and possibly drunk
probably in that same old bed
thinking of which book is unread,
still pondering the possibility
that there's a rule so silly
as
"better left unsaid."

hallways,
fluorescent lights
the faint scent
of
latex gloves and
sheer nightgowns.
you stand there,
slowly breathing
in rhythm with
the ticking
clock.
he holds your hand,
the very touch
the transfer of
warmth
between your fingers.
you feel,
somewhat relieved
like if this were meant
to
simply
happen
you were glad
he was there.

didn't you always want this?
to be swaddled with
twinkling toes
and miniature socks?
was it not you
who felt the movement
and prayed for the unexpected?

the results aren't
even the hardest
part.
it is the waiting,
the absorbing
the acceptance
the denial,
it is the
in-between
yet also
the after.

as the blood
swims through
the plastic tube,
the liquified
decision
right there
in crimson red,
waiting to tell,
wanting to whisper
"your life may change,"
you look through
memories,
moments,
like catalogs
in magazines.

what happens next?
no one knows,
except the specimen
painted
masqueraded
in crimson red.

there are three
things,
concepts,
in this changing world
that make life
interesting:
roses,
thorns
everything in between.

roses,
the texture
against painted
hands.
blurry vision
seeing nothing
but the sweet
alluring smell
of a simple rose.
life is good,
for the most part
everything else
anything else
fades into the blur
of naivety.

thorns,
the nature
of which they *****
pick,
control your mind
in the way it was seen.
you finger is touched,
the skin breaks
you bleed,
not in the normal sense
there's no red
no liquid
no pain,
not until you begin
to bleed again.
life, is messy
it's unpredictable
it's still beauty
yet not the kind
you want to stop
and stare.

and then,
knowing this,
taking this in
breathing it in
how do you handle
the "in-between?"