It’s rained.
Crawdads swept up on the street.
I chase them down with small bare-feet.
Across the street, there rises steam.
The neighbor makes hot oysters sing.
Carolina, is still that child—
She’s in my heart, she’s roaming free.
No need to brush your hair, little Bee.
I like it stringy.
I like black feet.
The story here is one of Me.
It’s where I copped the name “Beezee”
Where I road bikes and scraped my knees.
I ducked and dived and climbed up trees.
It’s forever and a day so sweet.
Nostalgia is my favorite street.

I guess now, the night we met is just a memory—
    a self-portrait without ****** features,
Only streaks where tears once ran, as the image
   is so blurry, but I still see myself
Running back to you… too easily.

It’s such a sad picture— an enigma, half-painted
   with eager thoughts quietly bleeding
Into the ink of doubt, each brushstroke pulling me
   further from the truth I never wanted to name
Now it just hangs… so awkwardly crooked

You left me walking alone in this gallery
           of only terrible memories.

वाट पाहिलेली तिजी मी,
पण ती नाही आली
खिडकीत दिसलेली ती शेवटची,
परत दिसलीदेखील नाही

कित्तीएक वर्षं गेली आता,
आता गेलाय खूप काळ
तिच्या आठवणींचा मात्र,
मी केलाय सांभाळ

कुठे असेल आत्ता ती?
ह्या प्रश्नानं दिला त्रास
चेहऱ्यावर आहे हसू,
पण आतून आहे मी उदास

विचारलेलं तिच्याबद्दल,
चौकशी खूप केलेली
कुणास ठाऊक, कुठल्या शहरात,
होती ती हरवलेली

तिच्या आठवणीने खूप त्रासलोय,
नाही मला सुचत काही
म्हणूनच कदाचित परत विचारतोय —
कुठे असेल आत्ता ती??

swish of sheets
and flurries of light,
cotton through fingers
a touch to wet ice.
pillows of white,
slow nights of sleet
call to mine conscience
fond memories to keep.

I sat down by the tree in the center of the cul de sac
and I stared straight ahead for what seemed like days.
There was a brand new mailbox and front door,
but my ten year old handprint is still on the driveway.

My favorite dog, Louie, used to lay on that windowsill
and patiently wait for me to come back from school,
and behind that front window was the formal dining
room where my dad first taught me how to play pool.

Just behind that was the kitchen where Momma used to
make meat patties and gravy, her hands covered in flour,
and the upstairs middle window was where my sisters
and I used to argue over who was first in line to shower.

The upstairs window on the far right was where my
neighbor used to throw small rocks to get my attention.
Eight years later, that friend is now in a cemetery and I think
about him and his family more than I can even mention.

The memories of my entire childhood are embedded
into each brick of this two story house in Candlelight Hills
and knowing that my white picket fence past is now
nothing but distant fond memories gives me the chills.

These walls in front of me shaped me into who I am today
and as I sit here on the curb reminiscing on my own,
I know in my heart that no matter where I live
or how many years pass, this will always be my home.

Let's not go down memory lane
For we may not come back sober
But drunk with pain we caused each other
And things will be back to the first squre
Of the entire grid that we have crossed
Or rather somehow,just stumbled across
To stand in this square, together,once again.

Let's not fight,cause it felt nice
Talking to you once again tonight
All of a sudden I wish to hold you tight
And be the source and sink of each others strength
Dare to tell me you do not feel the same ?

Let's not be teens,for we were fools back then
You physical and me emotional
Maybe our grown up depression was meant
To bring us on the same page
But here on let us just be kids
Frolicking in the sun
Falling on the grass
Drinking the rain
And licking our hands
Tasting all the fun we ever had
Relishing those flavours once again!