Object of my love,
My heart aflutter high,
Your auburn eyes paint a never-ending sky.

Your sweet lilac perfume,
gently breathes down my neck,
and your arms pressed delicately around my side,
one more kiss
is all I ask.

You give to me,
an oasis in a desert,
sunlight breaking night,
and emotions now become,
all the more enjoyable.

Life's motions
set my endurance high.
Now,
my heart slows,
my breath sighs,
my eyes soften,
and all around me
is the brilliant fanfare of love.

Mend the wounds unto me from my life,
and sew together my broken pieces,
with kindness
and love.

Steal my nights away,
sleep's another moment
not spent with you.

I've been given grapes,
give it some time,
now I want wine.

My love of nature is only surpassed
By the sheer magnitude of its own grace.
Its playful creatures, its leaves em’rald cast
The gleam of the sun, the moon’s brilliant face.

I waltz through the wood, my heart aflutter;
The dappled shadows whisper at my heels,
Butterflies float past in a sweet mutter,
Fallen leaves caress the ground it conceals.

Admiration bubbles up inside me,
Similar to a babbling brook in June,
The thrill of nature seems to set me free;
I fall into the soft grass as I swoon.

Here in the wildwood I can reminisce
Of times when everyone knew of life’s bliss.

I have this image of you and me tucked into the most precious corner of my mind. There we are, you with your seraphic face and dancing mind, me, round and brunette, more like my father with Japanese eyes and suffocating hesitation weaved into my DNA, a young five year old grasping your books in my hands.

That is how it began.

The same books I would read as years passed on. The books that watched from afar as everything changed. Books with dog eared pages, pencilled in words of "remember this" or scribbled lines and stars of inspiration, burnt pages from your cigarettes, warped font and wrinkled pages from your tears, my tears, my sisters tears. The tears that fell and fell until the three of us were drowning in that salty anthropomorphic ocean that started out a drop of pure rain. And on your lap, holding us to you, you told us how you built a boat to carry us toward some hopeful light house with twinkling lights and old wrinkled men in rain boots that would pull us to shore. When all along your heart was never our compass, we were drowning in your being. clinging to books in your library of the sea. tearing pages off in desperation.

I hope and pray as his finger brushes upon my binding  
That he will flip through my dusty brittle pages
That he will gaze upon my words and find emotion
That he will put creases in my binding because I am open and closed so much
That he will run into people and drop me on wooden floors
I long to be read
But he passes along and leaves with the infamous Edgar Allan Poe

One tedious journey, the blistering heat of the day made me stay.
I am home outside the porch exploring my eyes of the panoramic scenery of the countryside.

My mother baked Vanille Kipferl (vanilla crescents) with her own special recipe. The haunting aroma entice through my nostrils. She loves to bake especially on sunny days.

She went out to hand me a plate of cookies and mumbled how magnificent the scenery of the valleys.
True, it is breath taking but she gets to be so flibbertigibbet sometimes.

The tranquility of surroundings is exquisite.
I exhaled and it felt so good.
Rocking the chair, I grabbed an old novel from a table.
The cover was all tattered and dusty but I still flip it.

Then, I walked through a twisting thicket road bound by soil.
The vast green grass sways as the wind dance around them.
The singing of birds is beautiful.
I held my cloche hat while swaying my white regency gown like a lunatic. Every day is a gift. And that gift needs to be value.

I found a shade from an old oak tree at the top largest hill.
It was cozy but I don’t want to sleep, I’m afraid I’ll end up in a Rabbit Hole.  Instead, I climbed the tree with all my might, until I reached the edge.

Up here is different. You can see everything!

The sea is barely visible. Towns and villages are lined up. The atmosphere is heavenly. I embraced the beauty and got down from this old oak tree.

I snatched the book I left on the ground. I hugged it and when I look behind…

I am in a bridge that crosses a canal.

I found a flat-bottomed rowing boat with a man singing.
He looks funny in his striped shirt and black pants.
He grabbed his skimmer and bowed down.
There I go curtsy.
He told me he’ll show me the world. I just hopped in.
The place is floating! There are buildings with such unique architectures.

The man rowed and rowed while singing a song called “O Sole Mio”.
Since it was Neapolitan, I just listened and it sounded romantic.

He said we’re almost there.

…

The honking of vehicles and jamming traffic roused me.
I put the book inside my bag and looked in front.
The cars are huddled together.
These yellow cabs are not moving.

I descend my feet on the ground and shut the door.
The rapid combustion is hideous!

Burger joints, restaurants, people… more people. It’s too crowded.

Anyway, I made my way to this small coffee shop for a little zap!

Then the intense feeling got me clairvoyant.

Flipping pages, I come to enter a portal of a different universe.

In my own little world that no one can get me.

I am the protagonist.

5/25/14

I am sitting up in a bed of lace duvets, their yellowed hues glowing in the sunlight streaming through the curtains of the lone window. The room is musty, old, and smells faintly of the sea. As I tilt my head back and close my eyes, another scent, this time one of cherry blossoms and pears, fills my nostrils; this is my grandmother's bedroom. The walls are almost an off-white, a dull green tint the only memory of the color they once bore brightly. Birds are chirping, and I can hear the faint sound of fluttering outside the ancient window. A bluebird, perking up its feathers, sings its cheerful melody as it sits perched on the ledge. I smile at it, and it seems to bob its head, cocking its face towards me, as if in that one strange instant, it understood. The bluebird pauses for a moment before flitting away to his friends, eagerly feasting on the myriad of feeders hanging low on tree branches close by. Sighing, I lean back once again on the antique, yellowed bed frame, breathing in the familiar scent of the old white pillows. Slight violin music drifts in from the radio in the other room where my grandmother sits, silently knitting a surprise my sister will adore. The violin sings a song of a via dolorosa, of a crestfallen love that could never ensue, but still shone brilliantly. Tenderly, I pick up the book I'd been reading, carefully running my small fingers along its fragile spine, burying the aged pages in my nose, breathing in its rich aroma. The words take me to magical places, far-off worlds, daring adventures, the promise of mystery at every turn. For that is what a book is, is it not? A mystery waiting to be solved, a story that can transform the hearts of millions, a love that can spring up from even the driest of deserts...all that in the beautiful simplicity of words, words from the human soul itself, words that portray the depths in which the heart can swim against the coursing currents, the heights at which the soul can fly amidst the coming storm. I am flying now, on my way to Neverland, Oz, Camelot, The Hundred Acre Wood, 221B Baker Street, River Heights, Hong Kong, Camazotz, a secret garden.. I am the bluebird, flying high above everything else, traveling to unknown worlds of intoxicating adventure, experiencing
sorrow,
friendship,
love,
heartbreak,
joy,
death,
envy,
rage,
empathy,
horror,
romance,
terror,
and curiosity...
...all in time to be home for dinner.