Jen, never worry because I promise you that everything is going to be okay.
Your mind is as breathtaking as views from Table Mountain and your love is as beautiful as the Sistine Chapel.
Life for us was different a few weeks ago, silhouettes of dreams keep me holding on to a different hope.
Two minds flooded with dopamine, our disagreements show that we have more issues than weekly magazines.
But our love proves that nothing has changed in regards to the connection that we share.
I still write about you in hopes that one day you’ll read all these words and hopefully find your way back to me.
The moment that you opened up your eyes, I was right there by your side and my love for you comes as no surprise.
When my blue skies have turned grey, I listen to that one Emeli Sandé song and reminisce about you every single day.
So babe, it’s okay you can hold me now, hold me down and hold me always.
Listening to Long Live the Angels and taking note of the colours in my dreams.
When the relentless heat of the summer sun drove me crazy all I could think about was your smile and those beautiful brown eyes.
I’ve come to accept that love is a part of me even when it’s apart from me.
Jen, never worry because I promise you that everything is going to be okay.

It could be the comprehensive blow
of short sharp needles to my torso,
or the merciless ache
of looking at a sunflower with one eye shut,
or the unrelenting urgency to walk
the map of another.
but,
there are spaces,
where leaves use to be,
and now afternoon air moves between,
and there are dusty birds,
who flutter to the sound of the rain.

This day, as winter dies -
cold, and heartless, and exposed - a December which lingers
and feels no shame in subduing me.
It was in January that I was bad; slipping back to ghostly fingers
spectres in the eyes of him, me, you -
others around us that let their busy laughter sit on the roads like mist.
The lonely chattering of teeth under scarves, hot conversations wet with breath dew
Quick thoughts. Openly sad. Feelings persist.
A layer of sleep coated my fingers, my hair. My cold feet.
And beneath my gloved hands danced anothers' thoughts I struggled to know.
Slipping quietly into a slower body; sleeping under a layer of snow.
Soon, I promise, I will get better again. As winter dies.

It's always the same in January.

It's 4pm.
The sky is scattered grey,
you can barely tell where the gravel begins.

No train of thought,
no taxi to get in.
Empty faces changing but the expressions remain.

Recovering from last months expenses,
shop windows return to their honest selves
real prices for real goods.

An ice-y wind grips the populous,
wrapped up tight in coats and hats
more layers for daily indecency.

We revel on the new year,
but labor through the current.
Decembers novelty has worn off and we're back to square 1.

January - thank **** It's almost over

There Was A Long Month Called January
Which Filled All  with untold constrain and worry!
Tired of her scotching haze right from her beginning...
everyone ached for her end that was never beckoning
That Hell of A Long Month Called January

It was never about possession.
It was about yearning to feel. It was about the immensity I was drowning in with every look of his eyes.
Feeble was I for feelings were taken away from me at many stages of my life; and greedy was I for I was given back, all at once, what I had lost and this time as well, it wasn't mine to take.
I hold on to anything that moves me, even when my arms extend out of my body and I feel the world at the tip of my fingers, I hold on to it because my being fluctuates with it.
I am in love with whatever holds love, with whatever represents it and it's consuming - to feel so deeply, so dearly, so beautifully and know that this as well will be taken away from me.
Probably nothing you encounter is yours, not even your own body, but as long as you get to have it, even for an instant, take it, love it immensely, and if it goes away, it would have been nothing but felicity - felicity embedded with gorgeous memories which, at the moment of redolence, would scar.
But the scars will heal, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in a month, maybe not before your birthday, but they will heal.
It is all in your head, and sometimes it is hard to keep control of it, but you will look over it and life will go on for you and feelings will flow your way then ebb away then flow your way then ebb away again and you will be granted memories soft as clouds in a calm January sky.
Only don't be afraid to feel, no tree would blossom in spring if it hadn't forsaken all of its leaves in autumn.



- LynnAA