the space between
a sea of stars
dancing high
gliding far

the space between
a world
full of scars
stitched together in my heart

a space between
the unknown and true
leaving me restless
leading me straight to you

but a space between spaces
wasn't that far
for us to cross borders
on runaway stars

the space between spaces
isn't that far

I fear that one day...

ill jokingly say no,

and you'll say...

Ok.

We rally for ‘safe spaces’,
And I say I want to ‘enable’ them.
But my own mind doesn’t feel so,
And yet I want to make spaces safe.

My thoughts are unsettling,
And they can un-safe your space
But I demand ‘safety’ for Others
As I forget my agency,
And practice it for Them.

I let down my walls for you—
a complete stranger with sad eyes,
hunched figure, face down,
back plastered in dimly lit corners.

We held hands as we toured through galleries,
artificial sceneries, and slopes overlooking the city.
I let you sit beside me in craters other people dug up
just to see if you could fill in the spaces they left.

But you dug your own,
left me wondering how you could
claim love, promise me new planets
and then leave
just as they did.

I let down my walls for you—
even when I knew I'd risk drowning
for people whose words slowly turned into lies
once they decide to abandon ship.

I let down myself,
in hopes that maybe you wouldn't.
But you did,
the worst part was all of you did.

Now my walls aren't the only ones left crumbling
but my deteriorating furnished interiors
barely holding up the framework
of what the people I love keep tearing down.

It’s not a place as much as it is a space,
What’s the difference?
A wise woman once asked.

It feels as though “place” is too much concerned
With the physical features.
Places have trees, structures, water.
Places offer food, drink, dust collectors.

To call it a place would emphasize the gross matter,
The sand, the salty water, the dunes.
The people, propped atop their colorful towels,
The chips to be munched, the ball to be thrown.

Places contain activity, interactions, things.  
You leave the place with sandy toes, burnt skin, salty hair.


To describe the beach as a space, rather than a place,
Acknowledges the whispers rippling through the dunes,
The whispers of three generations that’ve been coming to this beach,
The ebb and flow of conflicting feelings,

One moment feeling as distant from them as possible,
The next, reminded that they, too, have sat on this same sand, swam in this same water.

A space permits the existence of a spirit,
That brought smiles to the beach-goers, still propped atop their towels,
A space permits smiles in the wake of tears,
A space allows for memories, experiences, nostalgia.

A space allows you to throw the ball,
And feel that he is still sitting on his big, sagging beach chair,
Squinting to see the arm on his littlest one.

A space allows you to trek to the water,
Remembering all the times you’d fetch him a pail of it,
Pour it on him to cool off.

You leave a space with reverence, gratitude, tranquility.

A place is devoid of him. 
 A space keeps him alive.