What does his name taste like? Is it a hint of sweetness that can ache the tooth or perhaps a general splash of sour with an aftertaste of vacant tang?
Does it make your lips tremble? Tremble with an unbelievable amount of gratitude and sanctity. When you say his name, does it reap your soul with finality, does it sound right?
How do your eyes look when you visualize him? His jaw line, his smile, his sigh after a laugh? Do they glow or do they provoke; searching for answers that are hidden in body language that you crave to search for with him, craving to share intimacy that the mind is calling out for because it has so much to speak it is fluent in a myriad of languages.
Does he speak your language?
My favorite word is broken,
because I love the way it sounds when you hit the “k”
as if you can taste the distraught and separation.
My frequently used word is aesthetic,
because I like pronouncing the “e”.
I never agree on the date the first time I write it.
It must be rewritten twice. January looks odd.
February is too close,
even though the first time was the best looking
the second is a reassurance.
Holding my dog is the best way to find peace,
because despite being gone from home
she always seems to find just the right spot
in my lap, and her kisses are endless because
despite being ignored for the entire day
she doesn’t mind being loved, there is no time for it.
My wounds have been salted and licked,
my bruises are from stabs behind the back
and constant kicks
but I love their colors, their painted purple
the glorious green, the benevolent blue
These are not the trophies I show to my friends,
these are not beautiful.
But maybe you thought they were.
Your voice vibrates louder than mine, your laugh
far more obnoxious
than the constant echoes of my
subconscious, but I love it to bits and pieces
More pieces than the broken mirror I reflect
and sharper than your lectures to my
snarky comebacks. You took the paintbrush
out of my hand and said,
"You are no artist, there is no need to place these
twisted forms of art on your body.” So I snatched it back
and swung and declared you would be my canvas.
I am no monster, I am no artist.
You are not either, maybe this is why I am afraid.
When I think of you, I for some reason, visualize you as someone who would still be my age.
When I told you I would see you on Monday, I really meant it, and when we joked about chords and frets I really laughed until my sides hurt. I used to be the only eighth grader into P.E and you were the epitome of someone who despised it. But you played the guitar like a teen in the wrong times, when you were supposed to be in the 80’s, you were stuck in this generation where people would just talk about whatever was on the radio.
You really liked Guns N’ Roses.
I loved Def Leppard, ACDC, and The Eagles. You did, too.
No one ever heard it, but when your sister came to visit our school to help our rally,
she turned to look at the gym, smiled with that bright grin that everyone fell in love with, and she said with a broken voice,
"I wish he was really here to see all of this. I miss him."
and I can’t say I miss you because I don’t, but I do wonder whether or not you would have been if you were my age now.
Why you and not me. I’ll never understand.
Rachel McKibbens, Let’s Crawl Into That Photograph & Stay There for a While. (via jeakm)
Quiet night, oh so quiet. Silence.
Driving on a mission to get my friend, the worst arguments are the ones that occur unintentionally.
When I pulled over, it was subtle. I smiled a bit, coughed, and took a step outside to embrace the cold air that embraced me.
I stared. I don’t know at what, but it was nice.
then I screamed.
I screamed and I screamed and I didn’t hold back and I screamed and I screamed as if nothing broke me.
Because I am not broken b-b-b-broken, I am not broken and I refuse to allow someone to p-p-push my buttons. I stutter when I get reckless I mean I reckless when I get frustrated, wait my words can’t fall together; stop. I need to concentrate.
We watched a movie on one of our dates.
Never Let Me Go, Andrew Garfield. He pulls over subtly when he realizes he’s going to die in his next surgery because he’s sacrificed so much, you see. It’s all coming back to me it’s all coming back to me.
and he screams. I screamed harder.
Something about this, brings a dark twist of irony into manifestation and it feels toiled with. Toiled until it has fallen rotten, more rotten than wasted roses and wasted pen ink.
neither have been wasted, just experienced.
"It's Love, Isn't It?"
Howl's Moving Castle
Howl's Moving Castle Original Soundtrack
I had a dream where I died, where I walked in my sleep and slept in my walk and wandered and wandered,
and I wandered for what seemed like centuries but maybe it was minutes because the mind moves so quickly but you
bring a standstill to my thoughts.
In this dream I was a foot soldier and you were a princess, and I protected you despite all odds and this was the exact reason I died. I was reincarnated as a child servant who brought your daily tea and when you smiled at me,
I understood compassion.
We both died and came back as red oaks, we supported entire communities of life, but my enormous trunk and fruitful branches was chopped to pieces and I was taken elsewhere. Whatever was left, a defeated stump, stood by your side. My wildlife fled to your branches, but eventually you, too collapsed.
We became petrified wood, a part of us always living.
You were turned into a beautiful home. I was turned into a book by Hemingway.
I died again, but I don’t know where you went, I found you and lost you for the I wish I knew how many times now.
I hope there will be times when you feel warm wind, and remember the desert where our petrified selves will always stand side by side despite the circumstances.
I hope you read a book and remember me, that the memories from our past lives somehow find their way into your mind through simple enjoyment of “reading”.
Read the parts of me that were unsaid in this lifetime, because I swear. I’m just sleeping in my walk, walking in my sleep.
I miss you,
and I do miss you.
I am so thankful I had the opportunity to meet Rudy Francisco, Dante Basco, Franny Choi, and Gemineye.
Their poetry was literally so fluid it made my skin crawl with pure amazement.
To the girl I constantly see throughout the day but never speak to,
I don’t understand why I see you around everywhere,
or why I never took the time to care - and ask you how your day was.
I heard you speak once,
it wasn’t about the biology midterm or about the chemistry book.
It was about the trees. You mentioned how lovely you thought they were, and I looked up at you.
You looked back.
That was it.
You smoked a cigarette while you faced me, I disregarded your presence. I could barely breathe,
but the same applies to last night; when I sat in the front row of More Than Spoken Word and Dante Basco was just finishing when I turned around to see-
You, not with your usual set of friends, but completely and contently complacent like the rest of us; enjoying absolute music to the sound of eloquently spoken words.
I looked up at you.
You looked back.
and we both smiled.