Her thoughts, gathered on the in-breath, are misplaced on the out-.

As her memories float free of their moorings, ninety summers fill the late-afternoon room with a kaleidoscope of people and places: a young girl in a home-made dress plays tag with her brother in a Provençal orchard; a dark-haired teenager waits at a station fiddling with the yellow star pinned to her cardigan; a Milanese tailor embroiders freshwater pearls onto a snow white wedding bodice; and - over by the window - a dashing young cavalry officer, with eyes which reflect my own, stands in the shade of a blue jacaranda.

‘J'ai oublié,’ she whispers as I nuzzle her cheek goodbye.

You may have forgotten, Bubbe, but I have not the stories you have told me.

I've been sad for as long as i can remember. The day my father died is when i started to wonder whether that is the natural state of a 10 year old, to lose a person who is supposed to see you through life until you can hold your own hand.

As cruel as it sounds, I've been wondering when my mother's time will be up ever since he passed on. I keep preparing my mind, every time her birthday comes I tell myself "you've had her for an additional year, maybe this is it maybe this is when your luck runs out".

I never cried about his passing from the day after. I was numbed and I've been numb about it throughout all these years. The only time I came close to crying was a few weeks after he was gone, I was watching the tv and something came up that I really wanted to tell him about. I turned my head to the back and I called out "Papa-". I stopped when I came to the realization that he was not there and he will never be able to hear and respond to the things I say anymore.

Everyone thinks that because I was just ten years old, I wasn't affected much. Due to the fact that out of all my siblings I was the one who knew him the shortest, they thought that I couldn't be the saddest. But that was my father too, I loved him too, I was his daughter too. Everyone thought they were the saddest person. They were so busy with their own sadness, they never checked on mine. They never asked how I was doing, they never explained death nor did they provided solace to my lost and broken soul.

To a ten year old who had to figure out her own emotions, the easiest way was to **** it up and keep it inside.

& when you go through something like that, you'll understand why I say I'll always be sad.

To one little boy, the world was a playground.
Everything had its own degree of fun.
And anything was a toy.
Including people.
As the little boy grew up, he played with lots of people
Using his smile and his words.
To him, they were toys.
Easy to use, easy to throw away.
Until he met a girl.
The girl didn’t want to be a toy.
She wouldn’t be a toy.
She was defiant.
She was special.
She stood out.
To a boy who thought the world was a playground,
And wanted to keep it that way,
The girl was in the way.
So he kept her close,
Not realizing he was becoming quite attached.
But after seeing her smile at another,
He became angry.
But when he tried to throw her away
She escaped.
For years, the boy never saw her again.
The boy grew into a man.
And, though he still saw the world as a playground,
He never forgot her.
Sure, he tried.
But she always came back.
Making little comments in his head.
Sometimes, he could see her face.
And he would reach out.
But she would turn away.
The man was filled with regret.
He would do anything
Just to see her again.
So imagine his shock,
And his smile,
When he found her again.
He apologized.
And begged, for the first time in his life, to start over.
But this time,
She wouldn’t be his toy.
He swore to her he wouldn’t play with her.
Instead,
He would make her his equal.
He would make her his only.
He would make her his wife.
To a boy who thought the world was a playground,
She was his friend.
She was the one.
She was his
Love.
The world was just a playground...until he found her.

Amongst my
coffee & wander,
inner monologues
and soliloquy’s,
I have seen
endless words
unspoken
found in the
meeting of
of a man and
I, whom I say
to, come,
and let us
give our
tides,
I seek to
reveal
the hidden
wonders
of your
heart,
unsaid
in your
glory,
reveal the
severed
layers
of your
rose, the
tender
and gentle
grace of
your gaze,
with stories
of the sea
I shall be
one with,
If only,
you are
willing
to show
your song,
tell me,
of how you
bloom.

Stare the stare and the glaze is near, move the root and the weight is there - Kiss, don’t tell and it’s all going swell - You’re flaming heart is always a dare, I punish you by giving the stare.

I move into you with full brutal force, I close up when you say it’s been hours of talk. I need to feel satisfied before I think, you don’t even mean what you just did.

By giving me all the attention I seek, you always know how to speak. You learn and you go, and you travel to learn again - But this time I mean it - It was just not mentioned then.

I see you when I speak, I tolerate your thoughts. I adore the humbug you make out of nothing. Thank you for knowing me better than yourself, this is the real stare I meant to fit with that glaze.