Tuesday, December 21, 2010

the years keep leaping

and I can still call you home, and you can still warm my heart.
[phrases like that seem so overused, but there aren't many other ways to describe that feeling.]

Saturday, December 18, 2010

too much, too much

I don't like this anymore, sleeping at all the wrong times (is it really easier to keep going?) Well sometimes I do, but tonight is not one of them. It is frustrating, and I feel my brain cells deteriorating and I can't fall asleep and it's sort of that time when I wish you would sing me to sleep but I don't wish it enough to call or text; it's sort of that time when I wish I had friends over, but again, not enough to make it happen. Alone time is good, and I needed it, and sometimes being alone with my thoughts is so draining that I drag myself to malls and public places, just to recharge and reenergize and people watch, just long enough to remember that I am alive and well and things like that. Where did you go, anyway? What made you change? I will never know. Admittedly, I have not forgotten you yet, but—despite several commendable attempts to remember—I have forgotten what it was like to want you so badly it hurt, to ache and miss you more than I had ever felt before. Well, I guess this is a good thing, and I have nothing to complain about.

taylor

I guess the most important things come to us in silence, in a still, sidling sort of way.
I will miss this.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

and stories and stories and stories...

Sing softly in the quiet of bokeh blurs,
My sweet and precious home.
Wrap me tangled,
wrap me mangled,
in the grey-grey of your floors
and I will dance and weave my arms
around and upside down
through fibers and fibers and fibers
in the most boisterous of fashions,
a Madonna, the new kind.
My eyes can't hold these stories
any more than coffee cup rims
can hold his kisses;
Awaken me, senses
with soft sauces and butters
that melt slowly
and leak,
let us dance again;
while the overcast stares menacingly
wrap me tangled,
wrap me mangled,
in the grey-grey of your floors
and I will sing a love song
for all my broken bones
for all the places my skull can't reach
for the thousand pieces of poetry that
play their way home,
I will sing.
Though my hands are cracked and battered,
I still pray for open skies
and the one day
when those sputtering
sax notes
will send me to Your arms,
a cowering fool,
in the arms of a King.

Monday, December 6, 2010

turpenoid

I have weird expectations.
I surprised myself today when I realized how much I cared about you.
I cried.
Then I stopped.
And here I am now, smelling oil paints, next to a pile of
graded math papers, coffee, my best friend
(They are not all in the same pile, if that is what you are thinking)
My eyes are sore.

Today is beautiful--
Ah, Northern California in December.
Light breeze, leaves dancing around and resting on the ground,
and warm friends.
"My own eyes are not enough for me."
Clearly, they are not. And sometimes (too often) too much.

I am not sure what I will do with free time when I have it.
I wish I had more music in me.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

if it takes forever, forever it'll be

I just wanna

get to know everyone and tell them how
beautiful/handsome/pleasant/wonderful
they are without worrying about
dating/romance/awkwardness

so I guess I'm gonna try.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

cinnamon sugar

I am fine, life is fine. There are better, more beautiful things to worry about.