Sep 2016
Since you left I’ve become a morning person, eager to start the day so that I may more quickly reach its end. Allowing my mind to wander only on paper, so that I may cultivate a product more fruitful than my own self-destruction.
I once read that a hive of honeybees will travel over 90,000 miles, the equivalent of three orbits around the earth, to collect 1 kg of honey. I aim to work at least half as hard, to pollinate my own raison det’re. I wish to renew my zest for life -- to live freely on my own, when there is no hand present to squeeze for reassurance.
I miss tracing the constellations along your skin as I’d watch you sleep, the ones I carefully mapped and memorized, their location as sacred as a secret garden whose flowers only I had been fortunate enough to see bloom.
3000 miles now lay between us, and still you pull my tides like mother moon. I wonder for how long I will remain your own orbiting pearl in a grandiose sky.
In the evening, I pitch up half of the tent made from the curvature of our bodies synced side by side. As I lay alone in my queen sized mattress, my heart mistakes the trees rustling in the cool night air, for the rustling of the sheets when you’d heave and sigh next to me. Your restless body a perpetual opposing force to the serenity upon your face -- a ship set out to sea on turbulent waters, armed with a hardy captain. I should’ve painted you.
I once read that a hive of honeybees will travel over 90,000 miles, the equivalent of three orbits around the earth, to collect 1 kg of honey. I aim to work at least half as hard, to pollinate my own raison det’re. I wish to renew my zest for life -- to live freely on my own, when there is no hand present to squeeze for reassurance.
I miss tracing the constellations along your skin as I’d watch you sleep, the ones I carefully mapped and memorized, their location as sacred as a secret garden whose flowers only I had been fortunate enough to see bloom.
3000 miles now lay between us, and still you pull my tides like mother moon. I wonder for how long I will remain your own orbiting pearl in a grandiose sky.
In the evening, I pitch up half of the tent made from the curvature of our bodies synced side by side. As I lay alone in my queen sized mattress, my heart mistakes the trees rustling in the cool night air, for the rustling of the sheets when you’d heave and sigh next to me. Your restless body a perpetual opposing force to the serenity upon your face -- a ship set out to sea on turbulent waters, armed with a hardy captain. I should’ve painted you.
