walking
down the narrow path
the leaves
rustling in the wind
my hair
tied back into a messy bun
a smile
plastered across my face
as i
look at the world around me
spring
it has come

I am from books; yellowed pages and black ink.
I am from shoes; leather and worn.
I am from dancing; Tap, jazz, and modern.
I am from Disney; DCOM's and the Disney Channel.
I am from television; Riverdale and Pretty Little Liars.
I am from Freeform and the CW.
I am from Bones and The Pretender.
I am from Pokino, and Forensic Files, and pasta.
I am from Ireland, Italy, and Germany.
I am from Belgium, France, and Grease.
I am from my bed in the morning.
I am from Science and Anthropology.
I am from painting and graphic design.
I am from Twizzlers, and Kit-Kats, and Oreos.
I am from apples and peanut butter.
I am from Okemos and Syracuse.
I am from ADHD and anxiety.
I am from happiness and the sense of calm.
I am from blue.
I am me.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
As I would for you.
As we are one. As we are unity.

As we enjoy the same fruit.
As we enjoy spinning,
As we enjoy twirling,
Our eyes blind to the direction of the world.
Our eyes blind to the walls,
The ceiling.
The floors.
Every step.
Every turn.
Not afraid of where we'll end up, or what the world thinks of us.
Alas, we are blind, our eyelids dropped.
As we cannot see the world, the world cannot see us.

We enjoy closing the page, we enjoy the story.
And as the words may be over, the way we perceive them still exists.
Swelling,
Inside us like a growing storm.
Trembling.
Waiting.
For the time to pop out, to flood our thoughts and perceptions, Trickling down our ideas,
like dew on a pure and calm morning.

We enjoy the pigment staining the canvas for the last time,
Until the next.
Until the next time our creativity burts out of us,
Until the next time we have something to say.
Until the next time our brush subtly scraps across the cloth,
Not making a sound.
Until the next time the colored gel glides across,
Transforming into whatever we perceive it as.
Until the next time a smile is plastered across,
Until the next time a masterpiece is completed.

We enjoy stepping onto the grass, the day having been done,
Our toils having been endured.
Our house just ahead,
Our home.
The place we feel safest.
The place we belong.
The place we read.
The place we write.
The place we cook.
The place we sing.
The place we dance.

The place the rooms combine to make our home, just as
We combine to make one. Just as we combine to make unity.

I run my fingers through his hair.
He will never leave my side.
I love to give him treats.
Who, girl, your man?
No, my dog.

He rises in the sun.
He is French and Italian.
He fills me with delight.
Who, girl, your man?
No, bread.