I looked at you
With such endearment
Not knowing that you
Would be the person
To hurt me the most

Blank page.
Heavy ink.
A sinking mind,
All hopes gone in a blink.

I entered a dark house,
With the dazzling flame of my lamp.

I entered the lonely living room,
But the lamp got dim.

I entered the rusty kitchen,
Only a few things glimmered by my lamp’s glow.

I entered the haunted bedroom,
Where my lamp betrayed me in the dark.

At the end, I forgot the entrance,
Because the brightness of my darkness
Was way too strong.

He was only a boy

Wanting to be loved

Then he became a man

Who was broken by it

A petal haired army saluting the call of the skies
- it made my heart go to her
until I hope her into being
and I look into her eyes -

eyes that shimmer with every shade of springtime
with frolicking lambs and trumpeting daffodils
with the glint of her chocolate stained Sunday dress,
dancing and whirling with the matriarch blues of six generations
to know our dance, but to write her own song -

a song composed of notes she will fashion for herself in
flower petal perfume and dirt and birthday cake tummy ache
and she can write them in gummy bears or wiggly worms
in any way she might choose, on bill boards or in locked diaries
but it will be beautiful beyond words because its her way -

her way - choosing to skim cliff edges over mama's apron strings,
tearing frills on tree branches and turning back her watch to arrive home late
and you can bet when she dreams him in her sleep she won't be feeling that pea.
But so long as she takes her dreams to heart and cuddles them to life
and knows that she is perfectly imperfectly beautiful and remembers that -

that life is lived as much on cliff edges as it is in your own home
that dress tears and stains speak joy every bit as much as a photograph
that mama's apron strings stretch far and wide,
and that though the shades of seasons change, she must sing her song
and dance.