at this moment
I am 22 and you
are just an idea –
a twinkle in my eye.
But my dear twinkle,
even just as you are,
you must know this:
there are great things
that make this existence of ours
Poetry Beauty Romance
Oh captain, my captain
These are what we stay alive for.
Now let me tell you a story, mi lunita
and may you be born with a mind filled with love
Once upon a time,
I met your papi for the first time
in a dream –
of this I am certain.
I stood in front of my friends and family
in a room of heavenly white.
I remember the curve of papi’s shoulder
in his nicest black suit. I remember
vows being whispered in my ear
and the way the light looked behind my eyelids.
I know this was your papi for two reasons:
1.) He is the only man I have loved
that would think to whisper marriage vows
– creating a secret, just for us.
Our love has always been just for us.
Why do they have to know everything?
2.). On our first date,
I opened the door
and in a burgundy shirt
red carnations in hand,
was your papi.
His lips were shaped like the Amen
to my whole life’s prayer
and I couldn’t stop myself from
So often, baby
your body remembers
what your soul has seen
but your mind has long forgotten.
Listen, my love
Find the quiet.
Feel your soul settled into you.
There is so much to remember.
I remember you.
My heart’s no different than yours
(or anyone else’s, for that matter).
It’s in the center of my chest,
as it has made its nest inside the
hollowness of my toraxic cavity.
It's no larger than the size of my fist.
It’s concave, divided into chambers,
and it's the most important muscle
in my fragile mortal body.
It weights exactly 227 grams.
It beats 101,000 times a day, and it
has pumped millions of gallons
of blood during my lifetime
through the aortha, the superior
and inferior vena cava, the pulmonary
artery, the left and right atrium,
and the left and right ventricles.
It has also been portrayed almost perfectly
in a dozen different paintings by Frida Kahlo
(but not because it's beautiful or photogenic),
and it's in pieces, but not broken
(and each piece has an edge to it that makes
all of them fit together, like a puzzle).
My blood is thick and sweet, like red honey,
but the worse-for-wear machine
that warms it (the motor that creates
energy and entropy out of a constantly chaotic
and turbulent flow of fluids) is covered
in oxidized barbed wire strands
and it’s loosely held in place by iron
nails that have become rusty,
thin veins and nerves, and a cupid’s
broken arrow. It contracts involuntarily,
without conscious thought, working
like a slave that has no master, and I can
neither control it, nor stop it, until it
finally gives out and caves in itself,
or implodes into the inter-dimensional
portal (or black hole?)
we call the soul.
For some it may be terrifying,
But for me, it is a great relief,
To know that each event in life
Is neither punishment
Nor a grand plan of destiny
But a free roll of the cosmic dice,
Left to random chance,
Without a meaning they grant
The freedom to choose
The meaning of my own life.
This is what comforts me.
Would you like to roll the dice?
There doesn't seem to be an end
To these thoughts, my friend.
Another day of this pain passes
While choking on the vacuum of space.
Darkness truly is the absence of light,
For I cannot escape this wicked plight.
The illusion of time aside, we've already
Lived and died – it is together, I hope.
I long for our time to glow
Much like a dead star in the night.
I wish for us to glimmer back,
Brighter and hotter than anyone
Light years away could ever imagine.
I'm sure we will bring life
To a world unknowing.
Until then, my friend
We must keep growing.
He? Glowing like neon lights
On a dark stark night
I don't even need
to stare him down
To see what he is made of.
He! Made of thousands of galaxies
And his eyes... a constellation
Out of bright burning blue stars
Hung upon a clear velvet sky
I tell myself, maybe that is why...
He, don't even bother to try
For when he speaks, his words it spills
Like ice-cold soda in my tongue
Simply cool though unrehearsed
He. The boy who could capture
A shooting star with his bare hands
Tell him, my satellite of a heart
is starting to orbit around his
Like a planet to the sun.
I know the light blue will carry us home. Our destination is hazy and it's blurred but we find it anyway. Our resting place is soft atop the unapologetically bare branches. A few times ago I'd have mistaken it for aggression as so seems the world when your heart and eyes and lungs are heavy but tonight I see its gentle pride. Warm light drips through the branches of tangerine love and our home is crystallizing in front of us. A cosmic show for no one but us and even we are not really the point. Slivers of glimmering truth fall away and it's natural to next see the paper mache love erupt into the black hole we had to know would consume us eventually. The stars are stuck in our throat and between our teeth and how can we be sad about the dark when we felt the entire universe pulsing inside us. I remember our beginning you know. It was dark and it was green and the sacred unity of it all brings tears to my terrible mutilated face. The bench is cold and the night is cold and I am cold but I can't bring myself to disentangle my soul from the electric night. I will sit here all night and lose feeling finger by finger if it means I can remember the way we were.
Sometimes it's eaiser to believe in some kind of of cosmic power
Like somehow a shooting star can change the course of who we are
And sometimes it's easier to make a wish on the 11:11 hour
Or believe some penny on the ground can somehow change a bad day around
And sometimes it's easier to search for four leaf clovers in a field of flowers
Than to accept somethings cannot be changed
Hoping for lucky showers cause
The reality is this:
We lose, and we fail, and we greive
And No matter how much we wish, we pray we plead
We can only believe
Just let us believe