Project Release

Temptress

2010-01-25T16:16:00.000-08:00

Does she draw your words from your lips, at night? Does it leave you feeling unclean? Does she run her fingers through your hair and whisper to you, through her incense smoke, the greatest of the Greek tragedies? Or does she make your colors run, sending them in rivers down the mirrors in your bedroom?

She might be everything you've ever wanted, but then again, it might only seem that way.

Have you ever watched the sway of her hips beneath that red silk dress? Do you trace your lips down her ribcage and waist, just so you can feel her breathing? Is she getting under your skin, running through your veins? Or is she simply flitting through your fingers, vanishing out your window when the moonlight gets too bright?

She might be your lover and your best friend, but then again, she is a very good actress.

Does she recite poetry in her sleep, saying it aloud to the empty night, in hopes that someone will listen? Does she turn into a crane each night, and sew feathers from her breast into sails? Can she even bear to watch you when you draw with your charcoals? Or does the sight of something beautiful leaving you cause her exquisite pain?

She might stay with you, but then again, she has always been so very restless.

Does she forget how to breathe, in the quiet hours of the morning? Does she read the sunlight like she reads your ancient books? Does she bite her nails when she can't understand something? Do you kisses ever let her lose herself? Will she teach you to waltz if you ask her to? Or does she always dance alone, her feet flying through the air below the windowsill?

She might be eternally faithful, but then again, it could just be a trick of the light.

Does she ever say how she feels about you, or does she keep it to herself? Does she remember fondly your first meeting, or does it leave the taste of imprisonment in her mouth? Has she ever once told you the truth, or are her lies completely impossible to detect? When she catches you watching her, does she smile sweetly and blow you a kiss, or does she stare back with the kind of eyes that stop hearts?

She might love you, but then again she might not.

She might hate you, but then again, you wouldn't know it until she was gone.

Mismatching The Letters Is What Killed You

2010-01-25T16:14:00.001-08:00

I've been getting dizzy a lot lately.

Maybe it's because I've stopped sleeping.

Or maybe it's because I've stopped eating.

Or maybe its just because the blood in my veins is all fucked up.

But, whatever the cause, dizziness always reminds me of you

and your affliction, so very similar in nature to mine.

It's been three years exactly since you stopped fighting it.

And two years exactly since I started.

I wish you were here to relate and sympathize

and help me make it through the day.

This would all be easier if I could just watch

your eyes change with the phases of the moon.

This would all be worth it if I could just find

what you found in life, that thing that gave you reason.

You were always stronger than I,

even as your bones betrayed you, destroyed you,

and ultimately trapped you, inside your pale skin.

And I always think if I can get up, get dressed,

make it through one more day of burning from the inside out,

I will be strong like you were.

But, I remember how it took you away,

and I know that soon enough it will come and take me to.

I remember too much about you for this to be easy.

I remember too many days of watching you die

for this to be surmountable.

You wouldn't want me to remember those days, I know,

so I try so hard to forget them,

but every morning I wake up and look in the mirror

and all I can see is a skeleton girl

and the ghost of the boy she once loved,

standing guard behind her.

It comforts me, for a few moments, to think you're still here,

but then I turn around and its

nothing but air and a hospital bathroom

and all the heartbreak comes racing back in

to fill the empty space.

The doctor says it's alright to miss you,

but that I have to keep my strength up, have to keep eating.

I want to tell them that jello won't save me

and to just leave me alone,

but they wouldn't listen, even if I did.

So I throw it all away and gaze out my window,

remembering things you used to say to me

and things you used whisper to the night,

when I pretended to be asleep.

And missing the way you never let the dizziness get the best of you.

And wishing I could let it dizzy me away,

to the place that you have gone.

The Facets Of The Sky

2009-12-08T20:46:00.005-08:00

The burning sensation

of the blood and the bone

sends the sky, screaming,

into facets of color.

And try as she might,

she just can't drink that much.

But she mistook her sickness for hunger,

and ate her way through

her halfhearted dreams.

Leaving the world she knew

in ashes around her

and allowing the unforgiving,

and unfamiliar one, to rise from the dust.

She scars her skin in attempts to escape

and puts roses upon stranger's graves.

But she is lost,

ruthless and indestructible,

perfect and poised.

Smokey eyed and

the mistress of lust.

She cannot become

something she never was.

Try as she might.

She has fallen as far

as she dares to fall,

and there is no reward

for the steps she has taken.

So she waits, willing herself to stop deforming

into the monster

she so willingly embraced.

And the designer lights,

that swing so soundly above her head,

are calling now.

So she smiles at the sun and falls again

into agonies that are hers,

and hers alone.

Posing and primping,

waiting for salvation

or redemption

or release.

Or the sun to stop screaming,

and the colors to stop spinning.

For the facets are not attractive

when they attract attention.

Anything And Everything

2009-12-08T20:46:00.003-08:00

If you are asking,

I am answering.

But I am a ghost

or a mirror

or an echo

and I can never speak first.

If you are wanting,

I will be giving.

But, I have little to offer

or show

for my troubles.

So I will give you a heart

or a soul, if you would prefer.

If you are falling,

I will be catching.

But, I am not very strong,

and it would be such a shame

if I dropped something

so beautiful.

If you are weeping,

I will dry your tears and freeze them

and turn them into snow,

because you always said

you liked winter best.

If you are broken,

I will gladly heal you,

but I've never healed

anything before

and I wouldn't want

to fuck anything up.

If you are lonely,

I will be company

but I'm afraid I might

say all the wrong things

and I don't want you

hating me.

If you need anything,

I will try to provide it.

But I am not much good

at anything.

And you are worth

so much more

than I could ever offer.

So if you need anything,

I recommend you ask

someone else.

But I can certainly love you

like no one else.

If that counts

for anything.

How She Was

2009-12-08T20:45:00.003-08:00

She began, as we all do, pink and small.

Unmoving, yet alive.

But as she grew, she began to move.

First to crawl, searching the floor with tiny hands

for something she had yet to lose.

Then, to totter toward open arms

that would so soon forsake her.

She played and laughed, not caring,

not knowing, simply existing.

She learned of innocuous things

and, when she heard of Him,

tried to believe in God.

She felt at home in her odd little place.

But she finally realized she would never

really belong there.

So she closed her eyes and her mind

and put on a mask so she could pretend

that she was happy.

And no one noticed what she was hiding.

But, older she turned.

And became more and more at peace

in her controversial skin.

She noticed the little things and how the sun touched

the empty hills first and the empty ocean last.

She understood and loved the way the city

surrounded her with music, art, and beauty.

She wrote poems on her cell phone,

covered her wall with posters of bands that

few had heard of and even fewer appreciated.

She truly found her place.

And at last, she turned

from darkness to light.

From pain to prose.

From lust to love.

From the four walls that held her,

to the vast and beautiful world.

And she blossomed into something she had not once imagined.

She dreamed dreams that danced in her head

like fireworks.

She felt feelings that burned in her chest

like embers.

And she saw the world through once broken eyes,

knowing, that she was exceptional, just as she was.

And when she ended, leaving only sketches

and foolish, childish poetry,

she spread wings that she had only wished for

and showed the world that she changed

for no one and stayed...

for all.

Singing Windows

2009-12-08T20:45:00.001-08:00

The windows sang in Latin today

and I breathed in the unseasonable warmth like oxygen.

The scent of fall lingered in the roaring wind

and the leaves that tangled in my hair

were stained with summer's blood.

I suppose the world is dying,

right along with the seasons.

And I suppose the trees are dying,

right along with the world.

So I push my fingers into the cold soil

searching for something that will grow

in this grime

or something that will live in the midst

of all this death.

But the windows sang in Latin today

as we watched Venice sink from the sidelines

and made no move to help

its doomed inhabitants.

And even they didn't seem very afraid

of their strange and beautiful fate.

But watching them drown made me miss you more

because the columns of Venetian buildings

reminded me of the way your bones move beneath your skin.

And the windows kept singing in Latin today,

while the teacher told us that quid pro quo

was wrong.

But that reminded me of you too

because we always get something for something

from each other.

And it has never been wrong.

I wanted to correct her,

really I did,

but the longing for you filled my chest with emptiness

and I could hardly focus on the whiteboard before me.

Still, the windows were singing in Latin today.

They asked softly "Quid novi?"

and I whispered "Nihil novi, amor.

Nihil."

And when I did,

they stopped singing.

Untitled

2009-12-08T20:44:00.003-08:00

There are people inside my head, you know.

They sing and they scream and the laugh at me.

“Out out out!” They say.

“Let us out!” They plead.

“We could be beautiful if only you would set us free.”

But, they would never survive in my world.

And I lock them away in my birdcage mind,

keep them hidden because it keeps them safe.

And they pound against the bars,

their fluttering hearts giving out every so often.

But, I can always bring them back to life.

I created them after all.

And, sometimes, they are grateful.

They whisper their thanks as I sleep,

because they don't want to ruin their reputations

by going soft on me.

And as soon as their tiny voices stop echoing off my skull,

they slink away, looking sheepish.

And by morning, I won't remember a thing.

By morning, they will hate me again.

So, sometimes, I let them out.

I put them into words and set them free,

at least for a little while, though it is never long enough.

They prance and turn cartwheels on my pages.

They laugh like children and run like rivers.

But, I am right.

Mother is always right.

They can't survive in a world such as this one.

The air is too thin, the sun too bright, the sky too vast.

They wither, gasping, and curl into sleeping poses,

their skin greying in the brilliance of life.

And I scoop up their fragile bodies,

holding them gently,

and put them back in their cages,

in hopes that they will remember how I saved them.

Brought them back from the brink,

and proved that they were safer inside.

But, they forget my help as I forget their thanks.

And by tomorrow they will shriek and yell

and beg me for freedom

and drive me insane.

And when I've gone insane, they will laugh,

and break free.

Desire

2009-12-08T20:43:00.002-08:00

There is ivory in your eyes and music on your hands.

You seem to see the sun in facets and nothing will stop you

when you stop at nothing.

I can't imagine the things you think.

I wish I could see the world as you do.

And I cannot believe we bleed the same blood.

There are photographs in your heart and sighs in your head.

You seem to breathe in the wrong elements and nothing can save you

when you can't save yourself.

I can't help but wonder how far you will go.

I suppose you've given up too much by now.

And I don't want to hear your neon words sighing in my ears.

There are birds on your skin and iron in your hair.

You seem to leave flames in your wake and nothing can free you

if you don't want to be caged.

I can't fathom the pain that led you here.

I don't understand the chains that bind you.

And I won't accept your love as an answer.

There is a future on your lips and a past in your veins.

You seem to steal my words from my mouth and nothing can hurt you

when you've hurt everything else.

I want your soul as much as my own.

I see the way you shy from my longing.

And I could never name this burning in my bones.

There is beauty in your ink and card tricks in your smile.

You seem to drink the sunlight like wine and there are dreams in your art,

just as there is art in your dreams.

I need you like some sort of drug.

I love you more than I can even understand.

And I desire a future that I cannot perceive as possible.

But there is a flutter in your chest and a gasp in your lungs.

I have caused you pain and I cannot atone

when I have done nothing wrong.

I will always regret my foolish lust.

I cannot apologize for the damage I've done.

And there is too much in you and everything else

to ever save me from the ivory in your eyes.

Being

2009-12-08T20:43:00.001-08:00

When we were the best,

we laughed and screamed,

not caring how far or

how deep down we got.

When we were the dead,

we stood alone,

fighting the world

with everything we had.

When we were birds,

we flew fast and far,

as far as we could to

escape ourselves.

But, when we held the sun on our shoulders,

we were alive then.

We weren't burning then, ironically.

When we were bleeding,

we ran and ran,

trying to save our minds

from our souls.

When we were kings and queens,

we hid behind jewels,

wrapping our hearts in tapestries

to keep them from bleeding.

When we were thieves,

we sang with our guns,

dreaming of somewhere

we had yet to go.

But, when we were lost,

we were at peace then.

We weren't frightened then, ironically.

When we were voices,

we rose and rose,

high over houses and

the gardens where we resided.

When we were angels,

we spread our wings and

flew too close to the sun,

hoping we would fall, like Icarus.

When we were trees,

we whispered with the wind,

and when the snow came,

we curled and slept, waiting for the light.

But, when we were crashing to earth,

we were freezing then.

We weren't tangible then, ironically.

When we were virgin,

pure and pristine,

we wished to be mothers

and keepers of secrets.

And when we were mothers,

we sighed and cried,

unable to take on too much

too soon.

When we were city children,

born of graffiti and cracked bricks,

we drank up our tears and hid our imperfections.

But when we were the city,

we were concrete and grace then.

We could finally breathe, ironically.

And when we became what we always were,

when we showed our faces to the sky,

we were nothing then, ironically.

Just as we were everything.

Are You Asking? Part I

2009-12-08T20:42:00.001-08:00

He wants to wake up beside her.

He wants to touch her. He wants to reach out with his fingertips and trace every line and curve in her form. But he's afraid that, if he does, she will turn to dust and slip through his fingers and he knows he would never be able to reassemble her from particles. He could never pick up all her pieces and stitch them back together.

And watch her eyelids fluttering,

He wants to trace his lips along her collarbone. He always noticed it first, the sunlight skipping over it like stones on water. It was lovely and delicate, the skin stretching over it, pale and smooth. He often imagines the pulse and flow that runs just beneath it. But, the thought of that makes him sick because it makes her seem so fragile.

and her body waking,

He wants to watch her cry, but not to make her cry. He almost believes that her tears would be silver and resonate in his system like the deepest music. The moonlight glitters off her and sometimes, she tells him, it breaks her heart. But even then, she never cries. He can't remember the last time she woke up with damp eyes and a pounding heart. She has forgotten what tears feel like.

and the sunlight slanting through a dirty window onto her pure flesh.

He wants to be more than a visitor in her life. To fall asleep with her joyous laughter ringing in his ears. To feel her heart pounding as she kisses him, clings to him like her last lifeline. To paint her eyes smiling upon his canvas, and to not have to lie when he does. But, mostly, he wants to be alive again, as he only was with her. He wants her back, but she has gone too far.

And to see her smile, and be able to believe she means it.

I Hung Myself From THe Skyline

2009-12-08T20:41:00.001-08:00

I hung myself from the skyline today,

and watched birds run the wires

between rooftop gardens

where foolish lovers hide

and waste their days.

I hung myself from the skyline today,

because my aunt said that teens

are cavalier about sex;

and maybe we are,

but who ever asked us?

Maybe we are,

but who made us that way?

I hung myself from the skyline today

and swayed there,

watching paints blur and run

on a talented artist's easel

and wished I could be

a time travelers wife

with thanks to dear Audrey and her dreams.

I hung myself from the skyline today

because I wished that I could justify

what we used to be.

But that was nothing more than what we made it.

I hung myself from the skyline today

and allowed the thousand legged creatures

to dance across my vision.

The world looks better through these eyes anyway.

I hung myself from the skyline today

and dreamed my foolish dreams, hoping, somehow,

that maybe this strange death would set me free.

I hung myself from the skyline today,

felt my vertebrae snap and separate.

And as my eyes shut

and I fell into my empty sleep,

I wondered how the world has got so far,

and where it began in the first place.

And why it takes a skyline

to support my dead weight.

And how I needed something to support me at all.

Weekling*

2009-12-08T20:40:00.000-08:00

Sunday rolled 'round and sang past us,

trailing behind it the scent of autumn

and the sound of horses hooves upon gravel.

It seemed to me, then, that we were long past stopping,

lost and bewildered in the forest of dreams.

Monday rolled 'round and inched past us,

long and lean and regrettably cunning,

wrapping herself in the finer things in life.

Her eyes were cool and wide and lonely,

brining forth imagery of prairies and open skies.

Tuesday rolled 'round and slid past us,

wear her youth like a crown of thorns

and feeling agonized and repressed and full of ideals.

She appeared as though as ghost of a memory,

though, in reality, she was much more alive than the rest.

Wednesday rolled 'round and glided past us,

ethereal and empty and sly like a fox,

letting her light shed from her skin like feathers.

She blew kisses to the beautiful days,

long gone as rainforests and pure mountain streams.

Thursday rolled 'round and strolled past us,

luxuriating in falling snow and icicles,

but burning with her fiercest passions.

She stole hearts and bared her fangs,

more vibrant and confidant than those who observed her.

Friday rolled 'round and skipped past us,

singing all the while of her sunshine going away

and ensnaring herself in her daisy chains.

She was the one of gingham and ginkgo leaves,

the strongest proof that ignorance is bliss.

Saturday rolled 'round and ran past us,

terrified of anyone catching sight of her flaws

and leaving in her wake the scent of burned paper.

Her darkness became her light as she grew,

but no one was with her when it became only darkness again.

The week rolled 'round and then past us,

showing her images on a flickering screen.

Laughter and loss caught in their moments

in sepia tones and spidery lines of regrets.

Her end came too soon, but no one was sorry

to stand.

And applaud.

And leave her behind, turning to dust.

*This title is an intentional misspelling.

Extra! Extra!

2009-11-01T20:28:00.000-08:00

I'm falling in love. Head over heels, once in a lifetime, sure as shooting love. Either that, or I'm going crazy. Maybe both. But, whichever it is, I have never been happier or more at peace. And I don't really care which one it is because they are both wonderful.

I wish love and peace to anyone who reads this!

Summer Queen

2009-10-13T18:15:00.000-07:00

She learned to love the feel of pavement on her bare feet and the burning sun on her bare skin. When night came, she learned to long for the brilliance of the day. And she learned to wonder how winter and fall and spring were ever enough for her. But that was what it was. Learning. She needed to relearn the simplest things. When I saw her, spoke to her, she was almost a child. Like she was growing younger instead of older. But she managed to smile and push everything away.

'What's become of me?'

'I'm not sure. Was I supposed to keep track?'

'No. But I thought you might have.'

But soon, the light was not enough. Or maybe it was too much. She would come home and wash the day off her body, with no regrets. But, after she roamed the city in the neon smudged darkness, she would hate watching the night run in tiny rivers off her skin. She learned to love the tightness in her chest that she got when she danced to hard in the headlights. She still loved the sun and the pavement and the heat and the light, but something had shifted. Something was dying.

'I'm gone, you know.'

'Really? You always seemed so present to me.'

'I always was before.'

She stood in the wind, as high as she could get on the rooftops, and searched the gray sky for the solution to her strange affliction. When the rain splashed into her eyes, she did not blink it away. She let it pool and run in false tears down her pale cheeks. Soon enough, she edged closer and closer to oblivion, staring down at the sidewalks below her and wondering how that short flight would feel. She never dared to dream to much. If she let those dreams inside her head, they would somehow become real.

'Would you miss me if I went somewhere?'

'And where would you go?

'I'm not sure. I think I'm trapped.'

In the end, the dark and the light put together, along with the wind and rain and neon, were not enough for her. She struggled inside the gilded cage of the rooftop gardens and shady taverns. No one fed her, or allowed her to slake her thirst. She faded, malnourished by the place she had always tended so lovingly. There was not enough of the beautiful things she had always sought. They were present, certainly, but they hid from her, frightened by all the beautiful things she was.

'I love you, you know.'

'I know.'

'But, you didn't, did you.'

They were sorry they hid. She had so much to offer them.

'No. I didn't. I should have.'

Preparation

2009-10-03T09:22:00.000-07:00

We are born and taught

to walk and talk

in preparation for kindergarten.

Where we go and learn to count and identify colors

in preparation for elementary school.

Where we go and learn to read and write

and, in the later years, to calculate numbers in our heads

in preparation for middle school.

Where we go to develop good study habits

and learn how to fend for ourselves

in preparation for high school.

Where we go and wrap our minds around bigger things

like biology, chemistry, classic literature, and finding our niche

in preparation for college.

Where we go to learn exactly what we will need

for our desired profession

in preparation for adulthood.

Where we go and work and dream of what could have been

and write lists of the things we want to do

in preparation for retirement.

Where we go to do those things and find fulfillment

in all the dreams we once had and will never have back

in preparation for death.

Where we go because we are tired of preparing.

Because we want only to rest.

Favorite Quote #473

2009-10-01T18:28:00.000-07:00

"[He] drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek / and made Hell grant what Love did seek."

-John Milton (1608-1674)

The Memories of Maria Bella Serafina (Short Story)

2009-09-30T17:44:00.000-07:00

It was not a large box, or an extraordinary box. In fact, it was an entirely ordinary box. The doorbell rang, notifying me of the delivery man’s arrival. I signed for the box, thanked the man, and shut the door, studying the brown cardboard with the mild curiosity that one has upon the delivery of a package that one does not recall ordering. It was not a special day, nothing worthy of gifts from elderly relatives. So, indeed, I was a bit interested.

I hunted for scissors with which to open the box, only to remember that my scissors had stopped working entirely and I had yet to buy a new pair. I settled for a large bread knife. With one swift move, I slit the packing tape and forced the flaps back the rest of the way. Foam packing peanuts encased the contents of the box in a static-y cocoon. On top of the peanuts, an envelope lay, pristinely white, marked only with “Maria Bella” written in flowing crimson script. There was only one person in the world who had ever called me by that name. Something cold slithered up my spine, apprehension creating gooseflesh on my bare arms. I picked up the envelope, turned it over, studied it, hoping beyond hope that there was a clue to the identity of the sender, and that sender was not who I thought it was.

With shaking fingers, I pried the envelope flap open, and removed the letter. It was written in the same handwriting as my name. Fear danced in my stomach as my eyes roved the page, searching for something, anything, that could make it a prank, a cruel hoax played by someone who knew too much about my past. I did not want to run again. I did not want the knowledge that he had found me again.

I found no such reassurance and there was nothing left to do but read what he had to say. The horrible game was beginning again and I needed to know the rules. The letter read:

“My dearest Maria Bella,

I hate to write you again, knowing that it will cause you pain. But I have no choice. First, I must say, do not fear. I have not written you to torture your mind, to send you scurrying back into the Protection Program. I know how you jump at shadows since our last meeting.

As I write this, I am imprisoned and dying. You do not need to run from me any longer. The past has caught up with me, my dear, and my time is short. I only wanted to tell you that I am sorry. With every fiber of my being, I am sorry. I dragged you into this mess and chased you to the ends of the earth. That is no life to live. For either of us. We were both much too young to have to do what we did.

I also, admittedly, wanted to say that, had we me under more felicitous circumstances, I might have enjoyed getting to know you, being with you. I could have easily seen growing old with you, my love, had I not been so far gone from sanity. Yes, I know now, I was crazy. To ever think that you and I were anything but pawns in that cruel game that we played for so long, and to think that you would ever have me back after all I had done to you.

There is nothing more for me to say, and I wish there was. I would write to you forever if I knew that you would read the last transcriptions of this pathetic life. I love you, my Maria Bella, and I am so sorry. I ask only for your forgiveness, though I know it would be near impossible to give. Good luck. Don’t let them catch you. Do not ever end as I have. It is no way to die.

Yours Forever,

Dimitri”

I stood, for how long I do not know, at my kitchen table, un-felt tears streaking down my face. It was not until the golden sunset splashed through the back window that I had the strength to move. I placed the envelope and letter on the table and slumped into a chair. He was gone. My last link to the horror I had experienced, was gone. I should have been happy, overjoyed. But, instead, I felt like some piece of me was gone, ripped out mercilessly by some unseen force. It was not until a long time later that I remembered the box.

Slowly, the strength gone from my arms, I sifted through the packing peanuts until my hands brushed something smooth. Carefully, I lifted it out. Polished ebony shimmered crimson in the dregs of light. I placed it on the table, studying the vines and flowers engraved on the surface. I knew, very well, what it was. This box, much more expensive than the box that carried it to me, was proof. Proof that I was free of my past, that I could wash away those memories. I sighed, feeling dried tears stretch my skin. I ran my hands lovingly across the deep bronze latch. Lifting the clasp, I listened to the clicking and whirring of tiny gears. The box was submitting, allowing me to open it. I lifted the lid and gazed into it, smiling, finally knowing the truth.

Some Things I Love (Part I)

2009-09-28T18:57:00.000-07:00

- They way the sky looks when the winter rains are just beginning.

- The distinct smells of all four seasons.

- Curling up in front of a warm fire with a good book, steaming cup of sweet red tea, and a purring cat (as cliched as it sounds).

- The feeling of safety and slightly giddy euphoria that comes with a lack of sleep and an abundance of highly caffeinated drinks.

- Finding a truly good song and listening to it over and over again, savoring every note in my ears.

- Getting a new idea for a story and writing it very, very well.

- Connecting with someone easily, in such a way that I know we will always be friends.

- Seattle.

- My body (for it truly is a temple).

- Beautiful art.

- This one boy (and the feeling of his lips on mine or his fingers on my skin).

- My dear, dear friends.

- Weddings.

- Photography.

- The way my Japanese maple looks when its covered in rain.

- Standing in the snow as it is still falling and just listening to the silence.

What do you love?

Where (Part I)

2009-09-24T15:50:00.000-07:00

Seattle.

When the sky is grey,

but the wind is warm and strong.

Hand in hand

with someone dear

who whispers sweet nothings in the cool silence

of the morning.

A loft.

Painted dark, natural reds and greens and golds.

Cluttered with books,

statues of various religious figures,

plants,

instruments,

souvenirs from places we have gone.

Alive.

With laughter

and song.

With joy and love

and passion

for all things wonderful and evanescent.

Somewhere,

that I have yet to be.

Someone,

I have yet to meet.

Dreaming, for now,

of where

I am longing to go,

and have yet to see.