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Rebecca Wolohan Jul 2015
The moon stares down at us silently,
yet we cannot tell if it is in judgement or adoration.
Her hollow eyes and full lips make up an illuminate silhouette.
Your glowing porcelain mirrors her China cabinet.
Maybe she is jealous;
your off-white shine is holding my attention
more than hers ever has.
Maybe it is narcissistic of me to assume
that Mrs. Moon craves my affection.
Maybe it was wise of me to realize that your mahogany shutters contrasted against the dark green earth in your backyard
are encasing me with a sense of safety that I have not recently felt
and I should clutch on to that warmth and comfort
as tightly as your right hand clutches onto the fistful of my hair
or the strength your left arm carries
as it winds protectively around my waist.
Rebecca Wolohan Jun 2015
never has a smile
influenced the rate of my heart's
eclectic beating
as much as yours.
never has a touch
sent shivers down my spine
and through the recesses
of my hungry soul
as much as yours.
never has a mind
articulated such emphatic musings
and solemn trepidations
and shot them into the sky
with passion and hope and trust
only for the arrow to come spiraling down
embedding itself
into the flesh of my chest.
do not pull that arrow out of the basket
that is my *****.
let it sink deeper
through my bones,
let it disappear into my arteries
and dissolve.
let it become one with my blood
and soak up the air
that you breathe into me.
i am thirsty
and you are the only water
i want to drink.
Rebecca Wolohan Jun 2015
The towering palm trees dance with the wind, basking in the sun. The parking lot is full, spilling over with cars and families and couples. I take off my shoes to feel the earth make room for my feet and I long to hold his hand. He is tall, like the palm trees, and sweet like coconut water. He takes off his sandals too, and smiles at me as wide as the Pacific Ocean in front of us.
Kids play, building castles out of damp sand. We walk further down the beach, finding the ideal spot to set down our brightly colored towels, splattered with pinks and blues. We remove our sandwiches from the wicker basket, anticipating the savory taste of meat and bread.
Sitting down, I look out at the sparkling sea. Turquoise, bright and incomparably deep. I crave it’s waves’ embrace as they arch back and forth, beckoning, as if to invite me inside.
As I lie down next to him, floating in the sand, I still long to hold his hand. The sun is beating down on us, but it is not uncomfortable. The heat is balanced by the breeze and the sound of the ocean, the young boys and girls voices bubbling with laughter, and the tropical birds singing in harmony. My longing for his touch has not abated; however, his closeness and the smell of sunscreen and saltwater will suffice for now.
Rebecca Wolohan Jun 2015
The couple sat together on opposite wings of the jet plane. “I would like to know you from the inside out. To swim up through your toes and fingertips and learn to be as you are,” she called to him. He replied, “Your pain and despair taste like spinach but I will eat them anyway.” She peered at him across the sky, saying, “I do not understand your hills and valleys, the forests and seas that inhabit the recesses of your heart. Show them to me, let me learn how they sound.”  To which he answered, “Your joy and compassion taste like caviar and I wish I was richer.”
Rebecca Wolohan Jun 2015
When my mother told me that opposites attract
I had not considered
the constant buzz of my brain
and the calm drifting of the clouds.
The sweet blackberry juice
I lick off my hand
and the pain of the scratches on my wrist.
My breath turning into something visible
as I sit upon this cliff
overlooking the vicious waves and
the all encompassing fog.
Rain becoming one with the bay
and the chaos of rabbits and deer and people
searching for shelter.
My mother leaving town
and my father standing on the porch
wondering if he should follow her.
Rebecca Wolohan Jun 2015
His hands are long,
calloused and inviting.
Scars tell stories,
across his knuckles.

He has one hand cradled in the other,
tapping and rubbing
his palm
with his fingers.

His mind is a jungle:
heavy, sticky, lush,
challenging to navigate,
surrounded by undecayed green
and unobstructed sea.

“Are you anxious?”
His hands are moving rapidly,
yellow parrotbills
flitting in and out of the tall tree trunks
and violet, epiphytic orchids of his mind.

Turning to face me,
he stretches his lips into a smile.
He assures me that he is fine,
but he doesn’t see any birds.

— The End —