It's cold down here,
the white cushions and blankets do nothing
to safeguard my withering body
from Earth's cold claws.
Remember when we used to sit in Summer's sun?
Ankle deep in baked sand
as the waves lulled us.
Remember how you held my hand the first time?
Side by side, we sat on that empty beach
our hands absentmindedly digging towards the core.
It wasn't until I was distant that I felt your fingers,
timid at first,
then coiling like a grape vine 'round a fence.
You remember, don't you?
It hasn't been too long?
You told me,
in that raining back alley,
that you wouldn't let me go.
You told me,
as I held your hand like a lifeline,
that I was going to be okay.
I kept listening,
through the rain and your tears,
for the sound of running footsteps
and the clinking of money in my purse as he ran.
Did you catch him?
Will he never hurt anyone again?
Please tell me,
so that I may feel some warmth in eternity.

The way he looks at her
and she looks at him
makes love look so
effortless.

He doesn’t even notice
how he is leaning in –
towards her. And how her arm is
intertwined
around his so tightly;
with such a devoted glint of comfort
and familiarity.

I hope you're on the same train.
Making the aftermath
of falling easy, the complexity simply
luminescent.
Almost allowing me to feel light.

My heart had its fair share of
lightness, brightness – heavy now but
the smiles, the laughter;
It makes me feel as if
perhaps
that is what I yearn for in The End.

But will I ever find happiness if I'm overflowing with joy?

Because the
Melancholy
of a platform sliding out-of-mind,
with You standing there debating the
tangles in your shoelaces
warms up my equally tangled,
Masochistic
heart. Because that is not granted for me (us).

Not the handholding
nor the scent of your hair
when it’s 5 a.m. and your arms
are knotted around my waist and we
waste the day, the days, days in my bed.
Oh, yes (please).

No. I can't get that.
I remind myself:
"I don't need that."
I step onto the platform.
I mind the gap.
I dare do much
But I cannot dare to
trip, stumble,
and fall.

For You. (I already have.)

.
                    Time,
                    space
           ­         and everything in between.

                    Heartaches,
                    tea­rs
                    and secrets that don't come clean.

                    Gambols,
                    laughter­
                    and smiles beaming keen.

                    Deep thoughts,
                    aloneness
                    and the dark places we've been.

                    Handholding,
                    carel­ess hugs
                    and ready shoulders to lean.

                    Reckless stabs,
                    impulsive jabs
                    and caustic words we don't mean.

                    Contentment,
                    count­ing blessings
                    and hope we can glean.

                    You,
                    me
        ­            and everything in between.

.

as we collect our stories and reclaim our names
we become aware of the possibility
that, in fact, we always live with our ancestors
as we collect our stories and reclaim our names
we start to contrive
the raw material
to obtain our fibers
as we collect our stories and reclaim our names
we start to cultivate the insights of how those fibers can be woven into strands
that when interlocked with other fibers
create a collective blanket, untold histories

No, not a patchwork-quilt, not a melting ***, not a salad bowl
not a room full of flags with countries we cant place on a map
and full of people WE can’t help but fetishize
no, No, NO
this is an interwoven stitch
this is a tattered rag
that has been used to wipe **** off of colonizer’s *******
that has been used to wipe the dripping *** off of Thomas Jefferson’s ****
as he finishes up with his Saartjie Baartman,
that has been used to hide the faces of the KKK as they drag uppity black boys down the street
and LYNCH them in carnival and spectacle
that has been soaked in Black and Brown blood on the streets of
Ferguson, Baltimore, New York, North Carolina, Milwaukee, and every other city and district in the US of KKK

This is not a handholding session with me
I am the oppressor and I must fear my own wrath
my fiber is white, my strand is white
and too many strands are white
and too many Black, Brown, Red, and Yellow strands have been bleached
or told “wait your turn to be included in the blanket"
or "be thankful we even include you in the stitching
give us a TOKEN of gratitude”
I take YOUR strands and use them to cloth MY babies while yours lie naked

The time is now
to take the clorox and gulp it down as it eviscerates our throats and consumes our souls
We don’t need anymore whitewashed histories
we dont need anymore white sheets
we don’t need to go to BED, BATH, and BEYOND
I cannot come to you with a bail full of cotton and ask you to join me in a knitting session
#IMNOTRACISTBUT…

this is not a time for diversity and multiculturalism
or the co-option of “social justice”

this is a time for Solidarity

this is a time for Liberation

this is a time for Abolition

this is a time for Insurrection

this is a time for Rebellion

this is a time for Revolution

I cannot be the leader
but I can contribute
I cannot be the voice
but I can sure has hell listen

and this is how we will transform the blanket
not with hollow words and moderate reforms
but with direct action and liberatory collaboration
by yelling the phrase “white supremacy is as American as apple pie” at the top of our lungs

not with corporate funding and 5,000 dollar a plate galas
but by dismantling the looms that have woven the threads of
Hate, ****, Land theft, and Genocide
that have woven the strands of
reservations, redlining, white flight, and gentrification
and by co-creating ones that speak to our destroyed histories
that refuse to use the bleach
even when the blanket gets *****

I would like to think that by the age of 6, i would have turned deaf, from the hands being placed on my ears to escape bullets of words. Shattering around me, i wished to grow up. By the age of 8, i knew my place and, my place knew me. I lived in a minefield, during a war i had not realised was going on. I had unbroken bones which bled from the inside, my mind was torn in to a million pieces and at 10, i didn't know what childhood was, and wished i was alone.

By 16, I fell into a man, a man who's hand it took 2 years to gain from his mother, as she sat there smoking and drinking hot water with lemon to be diet thin. Trimmed the fat a bit when we both left the country, and he got a girl pregnant in India, with twins, which she later aborted; I was in Canada, and 18 when i wished i was blind.

I followed through, travelled the world, til i was 21, became a university student, a best friend, a lesbian, and went to a foreign country were you are forced to use your goodness to be a force of good, which no-one sees as good, but as a hand out, and i lost good friends and saw bad men lose theirs, at 21, I saw the world and i was i was emotionally devoid in a climate of acclaimed peace.

By 26 i was a mother, uncontrollable love and grief flowed through me, like rain is dissolved by the streams in the hills. I picked up my smiling, beautiful child, which had became my night, noon, morning and day, and i wished i could repair the tear within my soul, to encompass all the love i had for my son; and the tear remained patched up with sellotape; I wished I had been a better child.

I lost all consciousness from 27 til 28, love turned to hate, i lost my love, and picked up a young one, if only she was to physically show me what my ex had not been telling me all along; what my ex boyfriends mother made me feel for 2 years, and the way my father left, whilst my mother was pulling me up the stairs, by my hair. At 28 I realised i had made the wrong decision.

From 28, here on out the wind blew, and it blew down to the valleys, and there i found the love of my life. We found and created an indestructible friendship and love, the first only and ever to support me and our goals, she helped me stand up to my father; who then ended our own father/daughter relationship. And not 3 months shy later, when myself and my son mouthed our love and said goodbye. We returned to an empty house. I sacrificed my grief for a small boy who cried for a non-existent person. At 29 my heart was destroyed in a slow burning bonfire.

I replaced the love with the lost, and gladly filled up my tank with lost souls of lost girls, who had lost their souls from some other lost soul, and so the cycle becomes fully reborn. I became someone i knew not of. I had a best friend, who i solely loved because she was the vat of hope i desperately needed in the darkest hour, my biggest cheerleader and my ***** compadre. I remember at 29 celebrating a birthday with 2 friends, and looking at the stars and thinking, is this the meaning of my existence? I remember feeling like the winds were about to change.

30. I had moved house, abandoned my son and old life, for a new job, for new money. I sunk like the titanic who did not see the epic gigantic proportion of iceberg that was about hit the ******* fan. I lost the best friend. Slowly through another relationship did i gleam a sensation of love. It was love, but it was demanding and childish, and i pushed her away before she even asked me to be hers;  in i might add one of the most romantic pursuits ever. She became my sons best friend, my dancing partner, she loved me so very very much, and i hated her for it, i hated her so much for loving me, because i was rightly wrong and she was wrongly right. I just turned 31, and she walked out over an argument over bike helmet. I realised, i was a product of my over endless pursuit of love perfect.

At 32, i am single, broke my back at work, i was then dismissed by that work, moved house, began recovery, had a car accident and here i am beginning again. Yet i am in love now with a man, something i have struggled with for a year, i am at my most humble, deep, profound, sense of being in love, without reciprocation than i have even been, and why........?

Well....

When i was 16 i wanted to be 30, i wanted my life to be over. I wanted the dead years to pass. I wanted the hard work to be gone and done. Not because i didn't want to live, but because i had lived so hard before i was 16, that anything else seemed to exhausting for words to even begin to create.

Except i lived it.
I learnt that love is not words, love is words.
Love is the words of your favourite song, emblazoned on a 8ft wall, that you come home to, and see as a surprise.
Love is someone letting you read your book.
Love is not the voice, the meaning, the tone, the perception or allegorical meaning.
Love is not the abuse, the abuser, their demons, their guilt or their silence.
Love is the unspoken word, the deep stare, the knowing glance, a tender reassurance, that this is ok.
Love is your hand holding mine. N.B Handholding is underrated.
Love is not possession, greed, want or desire. They are not yours, you are not theirs.
Love is invisible, yes it is, red balloons don't mean **** on one day a year.
Love is not perfect, but imperfect.
Love is ruthless, and cut-throat.
Love will burn you to the very last core of your being because you cannot contain its power.
Love is not lies, deceit, untruths, stories told to the naieve because you cannot be a lover and have to be a storyteller.
Love is truth, truth that so bitterly hurts, that you want to be porcelain and break into a million pieces, from the chest .
Love is walking, talking, and laughing, always laughing; love is a smile on a face.
Love is hard, and intolerable, it is passionate, and persistent and it is consistent. It does not break, it is not flimsly like a kite in a storm.
Love does not take offence to personal battles and rebukes of deadly warfare.
Love does not change its mind, be unsure, lack responsbility, or drinks you dry, til you are dried out and up.
Love is not ***, love is not lust, lust is not 'go on, you know you want to', love is not sorry in the morning.
Love is not the ***** all night *** sessions that keep the neighbours awake, but it is in the glory of two bodies where love can be found.
Love condemns. Love is a silent recommendation from Disney, Cathy and Heathcliffe, and Ring of BrightWater.
Love is a minefield and a forbidden playground; it is a secret garden and a theme park.
Love is not alone, and it is not together; it is not your children, or your childrens, children; It is within them and without them.
Love is not to be found on the praying may, in the clouds, in a the pew, or in the incense.
Love cries, love wails, love beats at your very chest, love is in death, love is in the birth.
Love.
Love.
Aaah, hmmm, Love, is an indeterminable force, by which, because of its very nature, no-one can define by logic, except that they will, because, what they cannot understand, they use perception of their blinded sight, deaf ears, and lost senses to put into words, something their heart cannot.
You have everything and you have no-one.
You have reason and you have none to be afraid of.
You are your past, and unfortunately, you are not.
You are your damage, your hurt and your pain, and hardest, your own responsibility.
You are worthy, and you are worthless, you have been shamed and you have been glorified.
You are your own future, your own today, and the yesterday.
And despite all the crap ******* memes,
Love is you, and you are love.

By 32, i had learnt to love myself. Inbetween the grieving, there is a silent knowledge, that by 32 i am in love, with myself.

*I wrote this as a very open outpouring of grief i am currently going through, and also an open realisation of the love within and for myself. It is one of my most open and explicit short stories of my life, and even within that there is lots that has not been recognised, because it has been shortened and reconsidered somewhere else. Thank you

A child of ten
I thought of sunshine and handholding
They told me I was ugly

A young girl of thirteen
I loved to go to school
They told me I was dumb

A new student at sixteen
I longed for acceptance
They exhibited their disgust for my presence

Then I learned I was worthless at seventeen

I'm freedom I'm pace I'm alone I'm grace I'm hardwork I'm no sleep I'm sightseeing while not leaving town I'm smiling I'm here I'm okay I'm great

You're trees you're wind you're old smells you're handholding you're just a minute late you're dads truck you're nameless  you're a mystery right now  you're everything i could never hate

Im on my way I'll find you soon I don't mind waiting for someone like you.

there are two options when something happens that you don’t want to happen, something that changes your plans, something that takes a girl (who loves you, loves you, loves you forever like you’re sunshine) that you were going to get drunk with on a rooftop and kiss till if-and-when she fell in love and makes her into a girl whose Boyfriend Wouldn’t Like That. you can dig in your heels. you can stew and hate and surrender to the agony of we-had-all-these-plans-and-now-we-don’t. you can say I Will Never Get Over Her. you can tell your friend She Was the Only One I’ll Ever Love. you can tell yourself you have to want her forever or forget her, and you can’t forget her. you cannot ******* change your plans THEY WERE BEAUTIFUL PLANS.

or.

you can change your plans, even though they were beautiful. you can remember that she tried, and know it wasn’t enough for you but you love her more than just for her handholding. you can not-excuse her but you can forgive her. you can tell and tell and tell yourself it wasn’t right if it didn’t work, and you can believe yourself one day. in the meantime, you can have lunch with her instead of pay for dinner. you can turn her into beer and philosophy on picnic tables instead of wine in bed. you can take another girl to the rooftop who was made to love you the way a rooftop girl should love you.  you can quote books about the love you deserve because you deserve better on a rooftop, but you might deserve her at that picnic table. there are two options when something changes your plans. you can cross your arms. or you can open them.

Wired like a loaded gun
Waiting for the morning sun
Hello! How are you today

And I wonder
My love
Should I take the sun from you
Put it in a box of darkness
Like setting

I spread the ashes of a love never in love
just a circle venn diagram make believe but not Peter Pan
And love
I love you so
I am the sun
And I shine for no one

So box of darkness
Here I come

Speckled star dust farm eggs
Fresh renewed self conviction
Moon born
Phasing through to a life
Without you

Hedonism blood pulse
Still sentimental soul
Selling out to the lone wolf
Sneaky fox

Flowers tainting memories
Hand holding cheek kissing nostalgia bliss
Don't think
Of the one you will miss

Just kiss
Supernova
Little sunhat at nighttime party
Don't don't listen to the lies you whisper to yourself
You are the one you'll miss
If you don't help yourself

Feast on sin and self-righteousness
Reincarnation is second chance
Listen to the hands with the carnations outstretched
Fellow stranger with star burnt eyes
caring for those self told lies

You cheat
yourself
with handholding cypress knees bending towards
neurons collapsing
into the one who
Binary stars you
Binary stares at you
Holds you in your sleep from far away
Dream meeting past life fleeting into the now
You answer to this highschool crush pop quiz invader of reality
Who questions what color to paint the moon
Never almost drowning
But who has only ever taken a life
that belonged to them alone
relating in fictional patterns of physics
Undeniable wavelengths
colliding crashing consoling
You knew from the first eyes
that seeds of doubt would sprout in what you mislead as love
And you ask
Why not?

Hello,
        today is not tomorrow.

I am from a Saturday afternoon living room overflowing with the sounds of Fleetwood Mac, John Lennon and Bob Dylan.
I am from home cooked meals, roaring laughter at the dinner table and short tempered Italians.
I am from Frank Sinatra singalongs, Lifetime movies and swimming lessons from my Mimi.
I am from my Pop’s war stories, tomato picking and ***** jokes.
I am from the grandparents that didn’t want my dad and the grandparents that did.
I am from the stoic grandmother that wasn’t involved in my mom’s life and the deadbeat grandad that didn’t seem to exist.
I am from the ten years of Catholic school, plaid skirts and polo shirts.
I am from spoon-fed customs of Catholicism every day except (coincidentally) Sunday mornings.
I am from rose scented mornings because of regretted whiskey words from the night before.
I am from words muttered impulsively, apologizes not offered graciously and too many family nights turned into family fights.
I am from cigarette infused hugs, plastered smiles and “I’ll quit tomorrow”.
I am from twenty-six years of handholding, couch cuddling and kitchen dancing.
I am from goodnight kisses, chocolate chip cookies in my lunch and red heart emoji’s in a text.
I am from love and anger and happiness and remorse.
I am from memories in the making and a future unknown.

On the white screen dance the stringed dots
Mind spilled codes of hieroglyphic thoughts
Slowly they emerge handholding lines
Not always yielding intended designs.
Something was brewing inside the head
Coaxing to weave and take it ahead
The drunken horses so wildly gallop
There is no leash to make them stop.
Nerves are taut and they won't relax
Till all is vented they reach the ******
It was thus fated the moment it was sown
What's to be grown could never be known.
As the fever wanes arrives the new child
It may be adored or it may be defiled
The canvas is washed clean as in the rain
Something is brewing to be vented again.

Let's piggyback off each other
Create our own reality.
Hide not from handholding
But from that which cannot overwhelm.

Let's get sick of each other.
Bear ourselves to the world unforgiving.
And after our pain has been shed
We'll nurse each other back to health.

Let's have our chance at the universe
And after taking it for a test ride
Decide we deserve so much more
Than just the infinite.

Your mouth starts
And ends
With mine
As mine does with yours.

Let's close our eyes
Become parallel instead of perpendicular.
Let's travel together
Lines in synchronicity.

Upon my fingertips I have counted
the number of times my heart has been broken.
The number of times I have said no more.
The number of times I have said once more.

You, my middle school love,
our lips may have never meet but
our 13 year old hearts collided
like high speed cars crashing
somewhere between lunch time hand holding
and secret under table notes meant only for our eyes.
Three days after eighth grade graduation
I could still feel the warmth of you lips upon my check.
That summer when we said goodbye
I understood the law of gravity for the first time.

Now to my freshman crush.
The one that all the boys chased,
the one who I thought I could court.
We shared late night conversations,
giving each other secrets that we only told the dark.
I like a fool forget the law of gravity and jump once more.
You though taught me that sometimes
love is not always cupid’s arrow.
Sometimes love is not always handholding and lip kissing.
Sometimes love is simply secret sharing
and late night conversations.
Sometimes love is just a shoulder to cry on,
when love doesn't work out with someone else.
I am sorry that I had to walk away before I learnt this.

Finally I come to you,
you my high school sweetheart.
The one who was suppose to heal my brokenness
and show me why middle school love,
and freshman crush never worked out.
I lost in darkness forgot that you were not
the light to illuminate my path but you were just a girl.
A girl who fell in love with the broken boy,
who fell in love with the idea of love.
The only way the story of a girl who fell to hard
and a broken boy can end is with a tear.
I am sorry I could not love you the way
you needed to be loved, like how I needed to be loved.

Now it is senior year and these hallway
are filled with ghost that use to hold my hand.
Middle school love is now just a stranger
who I once shared a bus seat with.
Freshman crush now only exist in
long forgotten Facebook messages
and stray glance in the hallways but
not longer do we share secrets.
The girl who fell to hard no longer
looks up when pass in the hallways.
The memories that we shared have faded

And I, I say no more.
No more hearts shall I break
No more heartaches shall I feel.
No more I will say and say again
until I say once more once again.

i miss the oh so innocent handholding in the movie theater and the sitting in the darkness at that party and the giggles i had while our friends ran around betting if you'd kiss me that night.
we sat for hours on end and talked. talked about high school and how thrilling it would be to finally be old and have the freedom we knew would come and friends and that boy you hated on your popwarner football team because he had a crush on me.

then it came, that wretched thing called highschool.

when it did it crashed like a wave on an unknowing passerby.
you changed and just like that it wasn't innocent and it wasn't sweet.
you kept going and going and taking it farther and farther
and looking back now, i don't know how it would be if i stuck around.

hands that once were just held, transformed into hands that weren't satisfied and wandered and pulled at my clothes while my clouded mind didn't know how to say no and i wish i could take it all back.

our talks, they weren't so naive. all of a sudden the topic of school and youth was flipped to arguments on where i would attend college and how many kids i wanted and what state we'd live in.

walking in halls? they turned into stops before lunch where we'd spend forever whispering and teasing and touching.

arguments were then transfigured into you scolding me like i was some baby. who were you?

and texts in the phone were switched to messaging so my mom would never see what you sent me.

im sorry you never got what you really wanted.
im sorry i never did anything right.
im sorry you lost your friends.
im sorry i was too ******* up.
im sorry i knew you too well and figured out how to end my despair.
im sorry.
and im sorry i ruined your life.

all those kisses goodnight came to nothing
that handholding while walking a distant memory
romance came early and left just as quick
all our Romeo and Juliet love died,
along with our teenage hearts.

You melodrama you,
always wished for more than dew,
basking in the bald sun since we were one,
pushing me and my weak knees to run.

today I wrote a different theme,
Nope no midsummer nights dream,
no candlelight under the stars,
no precious smile inducing memoirs.

No handholding, skimpy in the park,
No little  jokes that make your eyes spark,
no warm butterfly forehead (oh man! those) kisses,
no happy 1698 days anniversary wishes.

No rolling around my mouth with your salty tongue,
No chess no dominoes no Donkey Kong,
no skydiving through the clouds while we are young,
no last minute spring cleaning when the bell is rung,

Still in the morning when I lace my shoes,
I just lay back and block out the news,
then out the door to meet the train,
Hoping for rain.............

And there you are with my missing umbrella

I've forgotten the words written
Upon your skin.
Did we write about the late nights the long days and leave the lustful leisure?
I've forgotten.
I've forgotten the smells slathered
Upon your skin.
Were they the sickly sweet apple blossom or cherry picked berries?
I've forgotten.
I've forgotten the taste.
Of Love bitten handholding and sneaky snaking fingers and thumbs
I've forgotten you.
And I wonder if
You've forgotten me.

probably.

This is who I am.

Thunder in the distance, coming or leaving? Staying or going? Coming or

Leaves falling from healthy trees like lush green flower petals, summer or autumn? Spring or winter? Summer or

Falling raindrops, water from seas you've never seen. Seas you've only touched. Creek or Sea? Lake or river? Creek or

Seeing children, small and smiling. Simple laughter, tantrum-less playdates and fairy tale stories. Park or playground? Street or yard? Park or

Playthings, dusty, slightly used. A yardsale full of stories. That was my favorite, once. Doll or teddy? Ball or necklace? Blanket or

Sheets blowing on gentle breezes. Wet, warm, drying. Not quite abandoned, but left to its devices. Lonely or purposed? Chore or necessity? Lonely or

Purposeful smiles for those you dislike. Cutting insults for those you enjoy. Love for sunshine. Love for Trash. Hatred for misses. Hatred for Jests. Cruel or fair? Friend or foe? Cruel or

Faires that leave no trace when they're gone. Festivals that stay only long enough for a single good memory. Happy memories with no roots. Steadfast or fantasy? Risky or Safe? Steadfast or

Fantasies about handholding, about side eyes and smiles, about inside jokes. Dreams about darkness, about imitators, about mistakes. Dream or Reality? Dream or Daydream? Dream or

Realities like calm water, allowing only ripples. Are you real? Is anyone? Are we dust and shadows? Real or fake? Real or fake? Real or

Thunder in the distance. Coming or leaving? Staying or running?

This is who I am.

It's so hard to watch him with other people
He's not shy about showing anyone else affection
And I'm one of his best friends, so what's different with me?
I know I'm being selfish, that he has much more pressing matters to worry about
Than a hug
Or some handholding
But I'm tired and sad and I just want someone to snuggle up against and forget the world

Missed Chances
of handholding at sunsets
of stolen photographs
of calls and dates to remember
of desire, rejection, and just
breathing the moments
of love to use
in past, present and future tense
If only one said hello
one would've been blessed
With the promise
of unconstrained adventures
of good and bad
of dreams and reality
of life

The innocent social snobbery
Found impact
Brought my peace
Nebulous and capitalized for the punishment
The child is the opus of the prima fascia child's lies
Sound of silence falls like the fuschia stories that sound like lullabies
The thespian memories look like I'm moving, the music's killing me
Truth, to be there, I can't remember
Locking in the organized cell, organic and designed
The trust was built, for the organized and all elope all love
Handholding humanity brightened the cradle really, brightening the groves son
And fell asleep with the eyes on the rocket, and the living society
I believe I'm hell because I am, prodigal son what do you know of heaven
The drinks and the pleasures, that need my word are you a patient's presentation
Beezlebub, always be a poet in prose
Sounds kind of apres dinner sleep, to between the blurred drapes that match the curtains
Desperate on call and states, that meandering with Tennyson inspired
The wit thy brought cerulean skies, the drapes shuttered

In all of the twinkling and shining
that the city had to offer me,
the only sparkling I could see was in the eyes next to me.

As we sat in the silence
and felt the air become dense with tension and condensation,
empty words and teeth clenches became frequent
as the innocent giggles and handholding wrapped themselves up
and rolled down the hills into the very lights that had become
blurred in your vision.

Although I could control my tear ducts -
pluck back my vocal chords -
I could not prevent the inevitable suffering
of the silence that choked us to a sensible conclusion:
you smothered me with attention and devotion
as I strangled your heart with my own bare hands.

To pursue love to find what is true is selfless devotion to one person for a lifetime. People nowadays don't believe in once in a lifetime love anymore because it's a fairytale to them.
To pursue love is saying the truth of the heart's desires and hoping the other person equally wants the same thing.
To pursue love is to go beyond kissing and handholding to writing letters even if you live in the same house together.
To pursue love is talk about someone as if they are the whole world and hope that you are their moon.
To pursue love is to act like an idiot no matter how many times you rehearse every word you are going to say.
To pursue love is to remember the small things are the big things.
To pursue love is present an idea so new to both of you that considering the future is a must.
To pursue love is be without lust because selfishness should have nothing to do with either of you.

Two dark silhouettes
in the window,
standing so close
they become one.
They found each other
in the dark.
Slow dancing
in the moonlight.
His dancing hands
on her hips,
yet moving so slow,
almost still.
Gentle touching,
handholding.
Embracing
this moment,
and most importantly
their hearts.

I was once a kindergarten teacher,
And I wasn't terrific.
Heck, I was probably a showcase of "least friendly"
Or maybe the most "lacking motherly care"

I made mistakes.
I overlooked digging in the dirt
And encouraged childish behaviours.

I appreciated
Kids that built towers
Only to knock them down

I watched children trip
Take a tumble, then a somersault,
and I patted them on their ***** head and said,
At least they didn't break an arm.

But I had fans, somehow.
Fans that had me bartering for alone time.
If they could run the whole circle, I'd give them a push,
Next time they ran the gym.

And my fans were, somehow,
Genuinely fans.

Their sticky, germy smiles,
And the security blanket that was
Both my scolding and my handholding,
Made the work worth it.

The girl I used to love (and still might just a little), how do I even begin to describe her? I met her when I was 11 or maybe even 12, an age where I was so bitter and angry that when she approached, heart on her sleeve, hands reaching out with friendship all I could do was recoil and spit venom at her.

With most people, they would have seen the violence in my eyes and given me up as a lost cause but somehow you must have seen something else because you never stopped approaching me with nothing but compassion in your eyes. Sometimes I wish you would have stayed away, maybe I wouldn't have hurt you then.

At a speed I could not have anticipated you became my best friend, not that I would have ever admitted it to myself, and I would go to you with girl problems and I never noticed that even then I was hurting you.

And then we fell in love, and that was the beginning of the end for me, everything revolved around you, I swear that it was like gravity shifted and I was caught in your orbit. I don't know if you ever felt like I loved you less than you did me, but it's not true.

I loved you with everything in me, in spite of everything in me. I swear it was like I was drowning, the way I loved you felt like I was always on the cusp of imploding.

It was violent and my heart tore at my chest to offer itself unto you. When we kissed my skin felt like bursting into flames and lightning charred the inside of my veins and I was lost, lost, lost in you.

I loved you so, which is why I couldn't keep going, I burnt out, I couldn’t keep up. I made you unattainable when I already had you.

But I was losing myself and I couldn't afford to.

But the worst part, is that it wasn't always passion and burning.

The moments I miss more are the ones where you would become unbearably human.

Memories of sitting on your feet because you thought your toes would fall off. Memories of shampoo in my eyes that you would tenderly wipe away.

Of gel and hairbrushes and your capable hands taming these wild curls. Of snow days spent watching movies. of handholding that would light up my soul.

Of drawings that you would make of the two of us.

(I wonder if you make them for him)

Of gentle singing when you were focused. Of earth-shattering worship that would bring down the Kingdom. Of tight sock buns and even tighter hugs. Of front lawn conversations in the dark.

Of slow dancing, of learning how to dance because I wanted you to have a partner in me. We fit, you made me feel needed in a way I craved, I was ready to give up everything for you.

Suffice to say, I miss you. Today more than others. And I'll probably never stop loving you in some capacity, you were my first love, but I hope you aren't my last.