A reader. A lazy writer. —
A book fairy with a sprinkle of sand from the hells on her wings
It was hard to hold anything against the world that took it all away but still managed to drop her off somewhere she can coddle her demons and shower them in star dust
CLINGY
The first kiss —
I remember that first kiss in that dust filled store room. It was time to go home and you pulled me in when I walked past. I didn't scream nor did I resist for I knew it was you all along. I tried to smother my smile for I'd have burst into confetti if it were any wider. And then you kissed me. Your lips touched mine and dust didn't taste like dust anymore. It tasted like glitter.
Just friends —
She knew from the very moment they met that they’ll never be just friends. There was something so tender in the way they watched each other. Something so desperate in the way their eyes searched each other out in any room. Something so sinful in the way their hands refused to touch beyond moment. “So what’s going on between the two of you?” has become the traditional question. “We’re friends” they’d say in perfect unison. Everything. In small sporadic bursts of light. Fireworks. They won’t say. There will be raised eyebrows, rolled eyes and smothered smiles. All of which they’ll miss. Every time. “We’re good friends” he’ll say. She’ll duck her head. Friends whose hearts beat as one. She’ll never say.
Let me be your mirror —
I watched you day and night. Your light and the way you shine. I watched you and taught myself to become a mirror. Hoping one day you'll see yourself the way I see you. Or maybe you already do. But there's so much light that you blind yourself from the truth. Maybe that's beautiful. Or maybe that's incredibly sad.
Alive —
A water drop plops on your cheek and you look up. Startled, a beautiful sound escaped your lips, laughter. You look up at the sky, blue interrupted NY shades of white. Eyes wide as you drink it in, the laughter still spilling out. As though it won't stop now that you've let it out. I wonder how often you let yourself bask in your mirth. Allow yourself to forget your ghosts. For a moment. 'Oh!' you say, 'It's raining.' The drops are light. Falling all over your face. As though your smile could possibly be imprinted on them and kept forever. Framed in a museum like the work of art it is. And so I sit, my hand in yours. Watching the rain fall lightly on your face. The steady thrum of your pulse beneath my fingers. Alive.
Colors —
Somedays, This life that I live does not recognize my vibrant colors and paints it as chaos. Because 96 was always less than a 100 and never more than 92. The numbers always seem to mock me even as they wrap me coyly around their little finger. With each digit I do or get done, Climbing up and down that staircase of astonished 'wow's and disappointed 'oh's. And on those days when the clouds manage to pull one over the sun, When the eyes of the world aren't looking for brightness but the barest hint of light, When none of the parameters that hold me down seem to count, the only thing that makes sense is poetry. With empathy etched in her eyes and her knowledge of the battered pages behind the perfect cover. Somedays we take turns. I write poetry while poetry writes me. We don't go over it to dot our i's and cross our t's. We let each other be and wait until the clouds triumph again.
Laughing with you —
OH HEY, FOR BEST VIEWING, YOU'LL NEED TO TURN YOUR PHONE