i can hear it now -the pine needles making a soft carpet and the leaves rustling,
dancing with their partners and laying with the soft crunches.
and there were rivers, rustling along the beds and laughing,
growing deeper and flowing to the sea.

we’d pile in the car, and run through the forest,
let the cool air kiss our faces, run shivering to warm buildings,
drink the warm cider and wrap scarves around each other.
it was warmer than summer would ever be.

i can see it now -the sunlight streaming through the trees,
trees and rivers i learned to make time for,
and us holding hands as we looked for directions,
the road stretching before us and hills rolling with golden leaves.

sunlight streamed through my classroom windows,
as i ran to school in boots, stepping towards my friends,
sitting huddled with each other,
because we felt whole.

i can smell it now -the fires, soft and warm and comforting.
we’d stop at these towns, low river towns, and look around in awe.
how could you live here, where the leaves are always gold? where the cold river runs so deep?
where the drink are so warm? where the clouds hang above you?

have you seen the sea in autumn? it turns grey and the sky grows cold. yet, the boat rides,
in the stinging sea air, seem all the more fun. and yet, the market smells all the more warm,
as the children walk around in wonderment,
gloved hands clutched tightly with their parents.

i can breathe it in now -the loneliness of a world that seems to be in it’s twilight,
but in reality is simply content to drive the mornings away, stopping to see cold buildings,
and allow the leafy afternoons to sink into an evening, where the lamps turn on,
and we sit in watch the stars in the gorge at night.

now, i remember, how much i loved all of you. we could listen to soft banjo music,
eat our sandwiches in the warm car, dress up and step into the autumn chill,
we’d explore any village and taste their hot chocolate, then stay as long as we wanted.
and then we’d move on.

some days, i feel the guilt churn in my gut,
like my insides have been replaced with syrup,
and i’m slowly being swallowed and crystallized in amber.
every secret i’ve kept from you whispers, begs to come out of my mouth,
because you love an illusion. but you’ve given the illusion so much love.

other days, i set the guilt on fire.
i feel oh so angry at you, for keeping us apart (unknowingly),
and i want to see your perfect world fall away,
as you realize that you’ve been living and loving,
me. the illusion.

underneath everything, i am tired.
i see circles like black holes form around tired bright eyes.
i see a lover, even though you think i do not have such love.
i see a secret, that burns like fire and strikes like storm.

you still see your happy girl
-but i am all that and so much more.

my dreams are still the same, my mother.
but there is another.
i dream that we walk together, i dream of her voice,
i dream of her in the night when i am alone and wonder why we can’t fall asleep hand in hand.

your lovely illusion is long gone,
resting in a beautiful of childhood
-with happy days, textbooks, the loud and strong proclamations:
saying that anyone who found such a love was a fool.

gone is the girl who you tell me about:
“i’m so proud that you listen to us and share our values -you’re wonderful.”
some days my mind screams
i do, i do, i do.

and others, it sneers are you.
it wants the ugly words to burst out like a swarm of angry bees
-yes i do. but i dream of women in ways you never would.
your perfect world would shatter, and we’d be destroyed.
my illusion holds it all together.

and i look up, and i see the day where no one needs my illusion anymore.
i’ll come to you with her, someone, her and sit down and tell you everything.
i was 15, mom. i love her. and whether i wish for it or not
-her world will shatter.

then i wonder, if she’ll be there one day.
i imagine walking down an aisle of roses.
i imagine flying to somewhere far away to ask for blessings
-their perfect worlds will shatter. to them, we’re barely not criminals.
but i hope they love us still.

and sometimes i imagine you,
and me,
in a place where we don’t have to worry.
doing things with each other that no one would ever imagine
-where no one will ever find out.

why is it such a crime to love you?
i love you. against all odds, i love you.

i love you when i’m told that love like ours is not the way we were made -that its disgusting.
i love you when people look at us and wonder who we are.
i love you when i worry about someone finding out about us.
i love you when i hate the world for trying to tear us apart.
i love you when someone says love.

sometimes, i think that is what i hide.
a long silk skirt of realities and lies,
swirling around our love.
and oh, that skirt casts a light like broken glass shards.

i’ve learned what it’s like to run my life.
eat fruit, exercise, pick-up the keys, do homework.
eat ice-cream, text all day, sleep as late as i want.

and now that life is no longer mine
-i’ll vanish the dark crescent moons under my eyes,
and lay in bed wondering once more.

i suppose, it is good for me
-i’ll look brighter, happier,
and my work will be done.

i’ve missed you so much
-the solidarity, the love,
the utter love.

and yet, in your absence i did something,
something precious and pure and perfect,
that you’ll never understand.

those late nights, tapping messages and sending them,
away to her lips,
and now she’s mine.

when you come back,
how will i hide this?
i can hide this.

more focus,
less time.
and yet.

you, and i we can’t be the same,
we can’t make these plans,
come to each other flushed and hungry.

and oh, i know, i know,
we’ll be busy.
but you, you’ll still cut a piece of my heart out.

i have not written since my last disaster.
the hopelessness, and the empty,
they were horrible feelings, but they held a beauty not worth having.

today, i worry. because tomorrow, the world demands results.
today, i worry. because so many people have told me so many things.
today, i worry. because so many people want me to join their laughter.
today, i worry. because no one knows what i’m doing.

the sun came back -did you know?
however, it is so much easier to study in the rain. i feel the need for my life,
when in reality my life should be tomorrow -because the world demands results.
because those results i also demand of myself.

yet, my heart, ever persistent, collides.
it whispers to me -can you believe it? she knows about that?
and it tells me -you can’t miss these things.
even though i can’t solve these things, they won’t let me rest until they’re solved.

but the world demands results. it wants a girl with a voice,
a girl who can turn circles and spheres and make something out of what she’s been given.
most importantly, it demands a girl who can solve any problem,
reason out every thought for hours. those are results.

and day after day, i change from i to she. because i am me. and i’m also she.
she, who can be the girl the world demands.

she has no time for this, she knows. her whole life is results.
as it should be. and when she’s done, she rests her shoulder against her bed.
and once, long ago, used to wonder who found her beautiful.
once, used to dismiss that feeling.

now, she carries it. each time the world demands, she gives.
she gives everything for results, and everything else for those people.
expect one thing. one, who she can’t see. one has held her hand twice,
one who makes dreams with her.

one, who she makes dreams with. because when the world is done demanding,
she’ll send her letters in the form of keys,
and think about what they’ll become.
she rests her back against her bed, and wonders what it would be like if she was sitting next to her.
holding her hand under the moonlight and holding her in heart as she allowed the day to seep out of her.

it’s getting cold.
her work begins to pile up on her desk,
paper cascading around her off the table,
sitting ignored as she thumbs through a book,
humming softly.

and she feels ever colder,
because though she knows the sun will touch her face one last time,
she feels the impending sense of everything changing.
her freedom, her sleep, and all those books
-piling up around her in dizzying towers she can’t seem to hold upright.

each poem has become an ode.
no longer does she right those summer love poems,
notes of dreams and pining and romance.
she’s grown lonely,
and grown up.

each ode is to who she was
-the kind girl with the widest eyes and strong opinions,
this new girl with no focus,
drifts and watches the ink run down the page.
she’s so worried, because she doesn’t care.
and doesn’t care about that.

tomorrow will be better,
she says, sighing with tiredness repeating over and over again.
tomorrow.
tomorrow.
tomorrow.

but the pounding in her head won’t go away,
and all the doubts sink in
-you’ve lost your edge.
-you’re not doing enough.
-you’re never going to do enough unless you break.

her heart seems to beat colder,
slow down and she’s not that old.
she’s young, and she feels herself,
the brightness and ambition disappearing,
and they’re replaced by content and a sense of emptiness.