"sketchbooks" poems
And, you left me all alone,
left in such a silence that
I could't even believe you are about to leave.
You left an undefined scar in my soul and
my teardrops enchanted those memories we shared together
and laughed over them hours.
You went away in such silence
that all I could do is just NOTHING
but hearing you to mourn in such dogma.
Tears just drop by my cheeks and I just
wish you to come down and tell me,
"I am here, my darling,
Don't you worry child....
I can't ever leave you alone."
They said, life isn't fair, life is never trustworthy.
Now I see an feel that hard every night.
I never felt that I can't hear your voice anymore anytime sooner or later.
It all comes and goes....
what matters is the in-between time
you spend together by thick and thin holding on to each other.
You were lying on the bed when
I last saw you and there also you were fighting
to get over that period.
Remember? We laughed there too when you said
you had 26 milk pies and I strictly said,
"Get well soon Dadu. After you go home you will be having curd-rice and "Khichudi".
..... And God never wanted that to happen maybe.
After that you couldn't go back home,
you left this virtual world that very night after suffering so profusely.
You were 72 and I was 22;
but we never bothered about this algorithm.
There were healthy talks over he sunsets, over the pages of my sketchbooks.
You were my biggest inspiration and critique for every work; cause you
always questioned their existence and morality.
You always chanted honesty throughout your life and give me
strength, so that I can follow your path.
One day, you will be a proud grandfather who will be seeing my works getting recognised all around the world and then we will laugh together...
Me, from the terrace and
You, from that sky.
Come soon,
come in a disguise,
come as my soulmate,
come as my midnight friend.....
....... but come back, please.
because Payel misses your presence and laughter.
I will weep and bawl on my bed some nights,
knowing I can't see you anytime ever.
That heart-wrenching pain and undefined scar in my lotus-heart will bloom someday with your desired presence in my success and failure both.... I believe so.
I believe in you,
I believe in us.
Because, God snatched one of my biggest possession without even asking for it.
You have to come back.....
... and you will.
To those talks and platonic love,
you are being missed Dadu.
I wish, I had some digits to call you up just to ask,
if they are providing you with some spicy food or not.
LIVE FOREVER.
YOUNG HEART N SOUL.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
i'm from a small, yellow bedroom
yellow flowers, yellow layette
and yellow jaundiced skin
i'm from the taste of the tea mother makes me when i'm sick
and from the sound of her singing
about how she looked and looked for the light
like the roots and the leaves floating in the boiling water
her voice a soothing sound
like bubbles in simmering tea
i'm from words written on a page-
the feeling of an old book and the smell of a new one
and i'm from hiding beneath the covers
falling in love with black letters printed on white paper
i'm from lots of illustrations and then none at all
when my mind became colorful enough to fill all the pages
i'm from "the game is afoot"
and "after all this time?"
i'm from all over the world
pieces of my heart, a jigsaw puzzle
like my family scattered all over the globe
i'm from canada, from the US, from france from lebanon from italy
i'm from a country nobody wants
but a country that desperately wants us back
i'm from messy hair, oversized sweaters
half-finished sketchbooks filled with promises
and ******* poetry lines
i'm from the echo of my own voice
against the splatter of the shower
i'm from reading in the flashes of street lamp lights
i'm from pursuing science and desiring art
drawing on the airplane's foggy windows
and wondering how it flies
with a clear head and with clouded eyes.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 7:31 AM UTC
(Scene by the brook)
He came seeking solace to Heiligenstadt
and walked alone by its crystal stream
welcomed by songs the nightingale taught.
Its cheerful waters made Vienna seem
a distant, cool and forbidding stage
where few would embrace a pastoral dream.
He dotted his sketchbooks on every page
with earthen tones born of peasant heart -
(though fare rich enough for any age) .
He poured from the stream the fiddle part,
and woodwinds sang with the birds in the dell -
all "choired" together by his masterful art.
At Heiligenstadt Beethoven attended well
and bequeathed us his golden 'Pastorale.'
July, 2006
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
Rainbow sketchbooks and chocolate lay down,
on the wooden desk paid with broken cells.
The foundation *** which has lied to all the eyes,
hiding scars from my selfish life.
Money, shiny pennies from many, off of my father,
who will see my shine one day.
The drinks of cancer, which I force down,
hoping one day, they end my life as well.
The smell of lavender, purple flowers,
the spring is blooming my heart.
The stars are shining in shapes of torture,
the funny part of this joke is the truth.
Pillows, which are not made from luxury,
they are rather downfall when it comes to appearance.
Yet the softness, the cold textured feeling,
it warms my cheeks up with sweet medicine.
Lip gloss, I had once wore to attract a male,
who no longer cares for me in the fashion I wish.
Pink, red and blue… cream splatters all over my cheeks,
my eyes are green faded jewels lost in track.
Pictured life moments surround me,
her voice cuddled me to sleep,
when nobody would listen to my painful cries,
I once cried the tears of many hurtful lives.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 8:02 PM UTC
Oh, Andy-
speak to me in paints:
red, yellow, blue
When I told you I wouldn't be good at this,
an inability to sketch hands that punched at everything leaving me weak.
Keane's sorrow filled eyes upon oil made more sense to me.
I was never angry or mean, just sad and hopeless.
Lichtenstein was more your speed with obscene images of ******* women
and dialogue of broken hearts.
Van Gogh never made sense, but his attention to detail caught my eye.
To not know what goes on in your own head is identifiable so,
my head is art crafted by Picasso.
they hospitalize you once you've lopped your ear off
when giving a part of themselves to a lover.
I'm not cut out for this- the starving artist,
the tragic sketcher,
or the natural- born painter.
I've calloused my hands,
shed tears on pages of sketchbooks
put paint that looks childlike
and nothing worthwhile,
in all the time spent learning,
I've never learned how to be an artist.
I thought it was the mantra to be pained and miserable,
but you accounted for bold choices and vivid primary shades.
I feel betrayed, that my art alone, isn't enough to be good.
They will never frame my name,
or immortalize flaws in which could never be erased.
Like our conversation in my dream:
"I can't be mean." -Me
"Killing yourself isn't much different" -You
So Andy, what is the color I'm feeling? If it isn't blue?
—V.H.
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
No picturesque ruins will remain for us
To wander through with our sketchbooks and pens
For drawing pictures or writing blank verse
About bare ruin’d 2 air-conditioning ducts
The baptismal font will be repurposed
As a bird-bath (with a plastic Saint Elvis)
And the stained-glass windows will be sold off
As fashionable bathroom accessories
The crucifix of deplorable design 3
Will be stored in the back of someone’s garage
Until the girls carry it off to the woods
And laughingly use it for target practice
A rubbly field will serve as a soccer pitch
Until seventy years 4 have passed away
1 Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey”
2 Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73
3 Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited
4 Daniel 9:1-2
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 3:06 PM UTC
-
sometimes i wonder if i Learn anything -
sitting in the back of class with etchings n Sketchbooks,
looking through dimensions of a delicate World,
burning through the canvas with mechanical Pencils,,
.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
Your broken guitars,
My finished sketchbooks--
That's how we are right now.
No more songs meant for me,
No more completed portraits of you;
We're blank and make no sound.
What if, back then, I had stayed?
What if, back then, I had fought?
Would I have loved you til the end?
What if, back then, you had found me?
What if, back then, you felt the same?
Would you have held on to my hand?
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 7:29 AM UTC
I used to have a thesaurus in place of my heart,
fifty-thousand words to say how I hoped
I would someday feel.
In place of love, I had a fountain pen with a bent nib.
Instead of kisses, I had wirebound sketchbooks.
While other girls, giggling, wrapped
phone cords around their fingers,
I wrapped sestinas in proper syllabics around enjambements.
tiny crushes were
replaced by Haiku gently
wafting on the page
Love sick sighs were ignored in an echoing of
alliteration and onomatopoeia,
and now I look at you and I rack my heart,
but I can't come up with the right . . . .
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
when i flip through my notebook,
i see your name cluttered in its pages.
its scribbled in the margins,
scrawled in big bold letters,
and sometimes,
i can see where i’ve written half of it
before reality pulled me
out of my own head.
your eyes are drawn
in my sketchbooks,
your words are etched
in my heart.
and then,
there is nothing.
barren pages like dead forests,
filled with invisible words.
invisible words like ***** water,
trickling off of my paper.
the letters in your name
don’t haunt me anymore.
they don’t tangle their fingers
into my hair and pull at my thoughts.
your eyes don’t seem to
watch me,
no matter how long i look.
your words are still
etched into my heart,
like the carvings that cover
old oak trees,
but they no longer mean
the things they did,
my notebooks are filled again,
with all the colors of a sunrise
and all the sounds of an orchestra.
a thousand emotions bleed into
its snow-white pages,
staining them with a color
i’ve never seen before.
they’re filled with endless hours
of a dull pencil dragging
across a new page.
they’re filled with myself,
flipping through its papers,
as the sun creeps into the sky.
my notebooks are filled
with everything now,
but never again will they be filled,
with you.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 10:26 PM UTC
I forced my razor knife down
into an anniversary coffee cup
crammed with pens, pencils,
two pairs of scissors, and one
roll of color film I'm afraid
to develop. I jammed it in blade-
up so I'd have to deal
with the hard part first
like a blank page before
an accidental tongue slip
drips ink and makes the page
pretty. Some tree I've never met
and some pink dye died for me
to cover this pressed pulp
in illegible squiggles;
and I'll be
damned if I let it down.
'cause I'm drawn to things
without opinions. Sketchbooks,
inkwells, rubber band bracelets,
a mixed-nut dragonfly rested
on my trampoline net. // Cut it
free // cut it loose.
Find a brick behind the shed
and smash it dead,—preteen me—
young Wordsworth me.
I pulled the sepia tape from Queen
cassettes and finished the glossy
plastic off with a vise grip in Dad's truck.
Old Brucey had mustard pinstripes
down the driver's side, all the way down
to the Germania General Store.
He was a blur to me before I could buy
my own Dreamsicles. Passing the chicken feed
and the resident, caged dachshund couple,
I saw his face for the first time. Seventeen-years-
old, staring at my grandpa through picture
and plate glass panes.
The angels he swore were real—the ones he payed,
praised, and prayed for every Sunday and everyday
the sun shined and everyday it didn't—
were now less deserving of heaven.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
she was exquisite as she looked out into the distance, waiting for her coffee to cool down
I would watch her as she sat in the same spot every day
as if this was her escape from something far away
But what was it?
Is she debating on leaving someone or life it’s self?
Or the memories she placed on a shelf?
What about Rent?
Is she late?
Or was it a letter she sent?
Is it the boy who makes her wait?
wait for every day that her energy fades away
certainly, it wasn’t the cold weather
because her face would brighten up as soon as she saw the first snowflake
I feel like her name is Heather
surely it wasn’t Blake
She was creative, and I'm sure of it
due to the overload of sketchbooks and pencils that were jammed inside of her purse
they were losing their color like how the fresh leaves abandon us with some remorse
I bet she's a writer too
because as she wrote, she would stop for a moment and glance outside for something new
At times I wish I could be courageous enough to say hey
but every time I do, I panic and forget what to say
she was the girl in the coffee shop
and I was the boy who wished to have the ***** to introduce myself before I stopped
cuz maybe, somehow she could have lived for another day
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 6:02 PM UTC
The sunset girls with warm smiles and sweet laughter. With ice cream, diamond earrings, diaries, romance movies under fluffy blankets, strawberry shortcake, lemonade made slightly too sour with a pink paper straw and perfect ice cubes.
The midnight girls with a wild side and messy hair. With perfect eyeliner, surprising laughs, black sketchbooks, late night ramen runs, stolen oversized sweatshirts, black cherries, fluffy socks under polished black combat boots tied in a neat little bow.
The sunrise girls with addicting voices and perfect high ponytails. With slogan t shirts, velvet scrunchies, red lip gloss, chocolate covered bananas, paintbrushes and easels, early morning hikes, coffee with creamer, foam, and probably too much sugar.
The sunshine girls with bright grins and kind eyes. With light blushes, sweatpants, rainbow sprinkles, nails painted, flower tattoos, peaches and cream, messy bangs, sketchbooks probably covered in stickers and crop tops just short enough to tease, paired with cute bralettes.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 12:04 AM UTC
Suddenly I am but an artifact
My bones are brittle, they crumble back to earth with the slightest breeze
Where there was once flesh is now non-existent
The heart that urgently pumped blood, the veins and arteries that carried it, the lungs that drew desperate breaths, the brain that ordered them to do so; all gone
Let my room become a museum of the only joys that never left me
Every corner of my room filled with something that temporarily filled my heart
The rocks, dried plants, mass printed fortune cookie fortunes, cat whiskers, miniature clothes pins, small pieces of pretty string and little baggies, things given and things found, the empty lighters, the scraps of paper I deemed pretty enough to keep, the unfinished sketchbooks and old paint brushes, the books that broke my heart and the ones that helped it heal, the collage of pictures of my childhood where all our eyes looked so empty, the vinyl records, the small old stuffed animals, the few objects from my infancy, the knives that cut my wrists and legs
Let all these things fill the silence or emptiness that I may have left
Cling to them like I did, find comfort in their stationary presence
or is it better to let it be another closed door, another empty room
Where you swear if you're quiet enough, you can hear my laughter and faint emo music
A room where my cats wander in circles crying out for me, wondering when I'll come home
Make a home within the ache like I did
Let the pill bottles tell the story of me slowly wasting away
Nov 8, 2023
Nov 8, 2023 at 2:06 PM UTC
Doodles, doodles
Cover my page
Unicorns with wings
Trolls riding lizards
My pencil flies
Its swoops
It leaps
Doodles, doodles
Fill my notebook
Notes forgotten long ago
A kingdom was build
Filled with monsters and magic
Where strange creatures lurk
My pencil twirls
It loops and scoops
Doodles, doodles
Everywhere they are
They've covered every page
Covers front and back
Few venture to the desk
They slide to the side
Casting spells that make a test easier
They are soon relinquished
By teacher's glares and detention threats
My pencil dances with ease
It pirouettes, it twirls, it sticks the landing
Doodles, doodles
They're no longer doodles
But life, inventions, and lands beyond seas
They rumbles around and soar in the sky
They fill my sketchbooks
They fill my brain
They run and they play
They talk and they laugh
They're no longer doodles
But the beginning of an artist
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
sometimes I wonder
like a clock-worker, twitching gears and springs
why we are programmed to fight for each other's survival
I watched my sister wrinkle;
crumple in place over problems for which she
lived and for which she cried
for those she could never stitch back whole.
what is it
when self-programming is charted and mapped,
through simple fixes like plants and a weekend spent painting
empty gridded sketchbooks and hand-picked
letter combinations,
that makes us turn to those who fall apart in our laps over the inability to place
into the proper places their springs and gears
I'd like to spend summer making you look at the sky and realize it's blue because
you woke up this morning and noticed it
but maybe I will stay here protecting
my plants and my paintings from uncertain puzzles,
wrinkling puzzles and springs
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 8:04 AM UTC
I've made you into pretty words.
Scrap metal.
Crumpled pages.
Ink Spilled.
You made me brilliant.
Permanent.
I suppose I made you permanent, too, but you never saw it that way.
Never looked at your own etchings and called them beautiful the way I did for you.
Your permanence was always in scars on my skin.
Graphite Queen Anne's Lace drawn in my sketchbooks.
My permanence was always poetry with you.
Lovely musings for hours about an afternoon alone.
You made the sunsets sound even nicer after they were gone.
You can't put poetry on a chain,
Shackled.
I ran too far from you to ever be held down.
But here you are
Scrap Metal
Hanging from my neck.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:08 PM UTC
i’m always Howling for more out of life. (these secret thoughts
never leave the ends of my lips but now flow from the
end of my pencil so smoothly)
i’m Howling for more time in the day because i can’t
grasp enough of it to satisfy the blank pages in my journals
and my sketchbooks and my sheet music but i must always accommodate
for my shortcomings in math class
i’m Howling for a wink of sleep and i worry sometimes
that my thoughts are as jumbled up in my writing as in my mind
because i deny them rest
i’m Howling for love seriously all kinds of it
unfiltered and clumsy first date love
or subtle and persistent friendship
or the comfort of a tightly-knit family i'm serious
i’m Howling for something real
you see all my days have begun to smear into indistinguishable hues
all the beautiful flowers bloom the same and wilt the same
there’s nothing different; i’m Howling for a change of pace.
something exciting, something peaceful.
something relaxing, something enthralling.
something normal and spontaneous, confined by
nobody and always Howling for more
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 12:06 AM UTC
Someday I will be a parent.
It isn't that I wouldn't like
to avoid it. I would.
Loving something so completely
is a scary prospect.
My mother, regardless of how
we feel when we flew the
nest, built a world for me.
She never cried when they
stole our money.
When the insurance wouldn't
cover her surgery.
When the world got so
hard to live in, that there didn't
seem to be a point.
She wept when the teacher
told her I had talent.
She held me close to her,
rocking gently and smiled
as the tears rolled down her lips.
You were always worth fighting
for, my little one. My little
boy blue.
I saw her spend what little money
she had, from waiting tables,
from nursing, from a million
jobs she worked.
She spent it, not on the shoes
that her co-workers said she
had to buy, because her ankles
looked so sore, her knees
felt so weak.
She bought me sketchbooks.
Hundreds of sketchbooks.
Never a regret. She smiled.
She was proud of my talents.
How can you love someone
so deeply?
How do you watch as your
own idea of who you
are is ripped away?
I don't know that I have
that kind of courage.
I will be a parent, perhaps not
young like my parents were, but
a parent nonetheless.
It is inevitable. I know this.
I hope, regardless of how
I felt when I flew the nest,
that I can be the kind of
parent that never cries, except
to acknowledge how important
his child is.
I want her to know, when
my own child comes to visit,
that it has talent. That I
support it.
I want her to know that
I'm proud of her.
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 5:02 AM UTC
It started at the end
when she walked away
Purple paint on his fingertips
His pockets full of clay
He's an artist
He thinks in strokes
She's a lover
She speaks in giggles and jokes
The sketchbooks form a pile
He's drunken all the wine
His hands are steady without hers holding them
He remembers how to draw in a straight line
If art comes from suffering
he's reached his prime
And since she's left him
He takes his time
The galleries are filled with her portraits
He memorized the contours of her face
Every sketch is an echo of her features
that he can't bring himself to erase
The paint is his tears and so he cries
It started two years in
At first they were just hints
The colors kept getting darker
Black was mixed with every tint
The slow distortion
The quiet craze
In the end she knew
this was no phase
For a while she ignored it
"I know we'll be alright"
People talked, she heard the whispers
In the end, she couldn't fight
It grew apparent
She was his muse
But he was rope soaked in kerosene
She saw the fuse
In the night she packed her bags
And stole a pen to prove her claim
While he worked inside his study
she disappeared into the rain
In the din of the storm she freely cried
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
II.
the boy at the coffee shop
is, in fact, a barista
he whiles away his time
at odds with metal monoliths
coaxing honeyed shots of espresso
from the scalding machines
and honing his delicate craft
his language is one of
valves, gaskets, filters
copper boilers and pressure
his artistry
in the turning of steam knobs
folding froth into rich milk
the pulling of levers
the milling of fragrant beans
the pouring of flowers
he learnt his calling
when he first sipped that
viscous indian coffee
cut with bitter chicory
softened with caramelized cream
and dark brown sugar
this is what he understood, coffee:
input/output, give/take
ratios and recipes
detailed tasting notes
he spoke to the machines
and they answered eagerly
and the barista thought the world
to work the same way...
till he saw the girl at the coffee shop
questions glimmered in her eyes
and sweet mocha laced her lips
she was nothing like his machines
all hopeful uncertainty and "what next?"
she wears her hair in braided crowns
concealing her mica-freckled skin
behind oversized cable-knit sweaters
scribbling in sketchbooks for hours
she too, honing her craft
he is a
chipped porcelain cup
gilded with gold
letting others sip their fill
till the cup is empty
and nothing remains
someday he will
go up and talk
to the girl
at the coffee shop
but for now
he is just
a stranger
longing from afar
forever people watching
and forever watched by people
-wren
Dec 18, 2021
Dec 18, 2021 at 6:33 PM UTC
art isn’t dead, but are you?
we express ourselves through our clothes and shoes
in today’s society Davinci’s paintings aren’t cool
5,000 years ago and the artist is dead
aesthetics and drugs stuck in our head
Van Gogh painted the stars and the blue in the sky
he also cut his ear off and despised his life
teens are committing suicide and slitting their wrist
the blood is spewing out and they are taking pics
posting on social media because self harm is cool
when really you’re just being a tad bit cruel
splitting our veins to become an aesthetic
these kid are not art, these kids are pathetic
how dare you expect me to be empathetic
the red blood falls on the floor
we don’t have anymore razors so grab your paintbrushes and draw some more
too much blood comes out and you don’t know what to do
paint palettes and sketchbooks still have some use
art is not dead,
but are you?
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 9:10 AM UTC
Long bus rides
Cold, dark nights
Pinpricks of orange lights
I am content
I don't know why
November calls my name
Maybe because it reminds me
Of pleasant hacks
Racing against daylight
Frozen toes
Or maybe it's
Twinkly Christmas lights
The promise of good times to come
Laughter to be had
Love to be shared
Or maybe it's
Old sketchbooks filled with doodles
Books taking me away
Music filling my lungs
Being at peace
Maybe it's
Your lips sealing my fate
A simple question, magic since
Three years later
You've still got a spell on me
You're still my anchor to the world.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 11:10 AM UTC
Honey in its natural state is a preservative.
I walk into the room and I see
A honey-filled jar that sits upon a shelf, bathed in spring sunlight.
A deep golden-hued shadow cast across the room
Washing over me as I approach and
I kneel and press my palms into the cold tiled floor and
I begin to pray.
“Did you know they placed your relic upon a baker’s rack
In a kitchen just small enough to house its appliances?
They ask you to bless things that you don’t have domain over.
Little do they know that I pray to you
To become too present in my own body--
Blood rushing is something loud when you’re attuned to it--
A love letter to life and the drainage of it
And the discomfort of realizing my tongue is too big for my mouth
Praise feels like the haloed light in this room:
The smell of a cream sauce seasoned to perfection
Offerings of homemade food and drink,
Dried sunflowers,
The last bit of ink in a well-used pen with the end chewed on,
Notebooks and sketchbooks filled to the brim with coded doodles whispering ****** secrets in tongues familiar only to you, and
Annotated horror books upon the shelf
I remember the day I found your body.
I remember draining your blood into a bucket.
I remember removing your head from your neck.
With a handsaw I found in my grandfather’s shed.
He still doesn’t know it’s missing.
I bought honey from the woman who sells it
Out of her home down the street from the elementary school
And I poured it into the largest jar I could find.
I carefully pushed your hair to be perfectly curled in the way that you liked it
And your eyes are closed, I made sure of that
Because when they stared back at me,
I stared back for as long as I could trying to find some meaning in it all.
And now the light catches the bubbles
Still slowly floating up from the largest sunflower I could find
A bed for which I rested your chin upon
Before delicately pouring in the honey on that day.
I kissed your forehead before adding the last jar.
Have you ever stared down at the ground and wondered
If someone--
Anyone--
Could hear the pleas crying for help and forgiveness?
I pray now for forgiveness, sweet saint.
I pray now for forgiveness for stealing a kiss and
Placing you here and
Pressing my hands to the last thing you have on this earth.
Forgive me.”
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 8:56 PM UTC
My bookshelves still remember you.
They are full of sketchbooks that forgot you broke my heart.
They wear your name proudly across pages trying to capture your smile between its covers.
I don't have the heart to tell them.
I don't want to tell them that those eyes can't tell what I'm thinking without saying a word.
That those hands can't guide me through forests and cities, through anxiety and depression.
That those arms are not home.
That I cannot hear his laugh with those lips.
And until your smile is no longer synonymous with the first letter of "lost" and the first three of "over",
your name will be the only word in my vocabulary
because I don't need anything else.
If only I could draw on a smile,
maybe my sketchbooks would think
I'm happy now too.
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 12:02 AM UTC