i used to have butterflies,
now i dont.
i now have hummingbirds,
since they flap quicker.

her kindness, her love,
has begun to show its mark.
the roots have grown in my heart,
millions of hummingbirds, when i see her.

who knew? that there can also be hummingbirds?
they bundle the most, when she provides her kindest words.

When people ask me about my first love,
I remember the smell of melted crayons.
Not your smile, your golden skin, or the way your face would wrinkle in deep thought.
But about the carelessness of a child in your backseat,
And how with help from the sun,
your car was forever perfumed by a melted, purple Crayola.
I grew to love this scent.
It's an odd thing to even say aloud now.
However, it's permanently imprinted in my mind.
Over summers spent in your car and nights staring into your eyes,
I grew infatuated with this waxy, sweet aroma that filled the air between us.
It became your cologne that stayed with my clothes while you were away,
My comfort when you were near.
It was never sickening or invasive,
But desired and wanted.
So when people ask me about my first love,
I tell them about this boy who always smelled of crayons and how much I miss him.

I think the Moon knows
I'm watching Her
Because sometimes,
                           She leaves me presents
It may sound silly
But I've got a jar full of Her secrets
That I keep in a lockbox under my bed
The pass code; Luna
So I'll praise Her title
Each time I uncover
The hidden gifts She's given to me

Purified droplets of moonlight.

The size of a jewel
The weight of a diamond
The glow of an angel
The shine of a star

The Moon probably knows
I'm watching Her
Because sometimes,
                            I find a drop
In the bud of a flower
Sometimes,
                  in the pit of a well
Sometimes,
                  in the cave of an animal
Sometimes,
                  in the crack of a rock
Sometimes,
                  in the hollow of a tree
Sometimes,
                  in the current of a stream
And on the rarest of occasions
I'll find Her lodged between the pages
Of my notebook

I've collected a dreams worth of gems now
So whenever I find myself,
                                       Lost.
- Swallowed by the void -
I'll have enough moonlight in my jar
To ignite the darkest of days
And the presence
                             of Her presents
Will go unnoticed by no shadow
Or creature of the night.

Luna knows I'm watching Her.

I'll continue to gaze from below
And let no stone go unturned
So when the Moon drips again
I'll be there to catch Her
Another crystallized droplet of a blessing
To tuck away
In the box under my bed.

<!>
inspired by a conversation with Maira Kalman


******* a name, adopt a persona, let my fingers do the talking,
place the instrumental sharp point tip upon the blankety blank paper,
maestro baton raised, coordinating,
the first sound, the vocal chords trembling,  
the first thought, the ultrasound image, entrance of a first violin,
coalescing into, into the initializing single primary phonation,
the stinging geometry of chance at last,
throwing  down the gauntlet, glove slapping, and the
tendons tense, the mouth opens, release and indentation,
a letter's curvature, a black and white downward stroking,
a sign is televised, revealed and released

a one way only sign

time bends knee, gravity suspended, terror morphs to
expelling rapid firefights of imagery needy for spacing,
even pauses mid-word  leave just this:

where is the in in
intimate?

are you the in in
inmate,
or the jailor at the gate?

you swear never again

until committing once more,

a sentence commutation, by committing a first sentence,

and the greater toll taken and paid for,

and the in in in-nate,
questions your sanity

happily


<•>

9/17/17 10:55pm