Rum Laden Present

"You're beautiful," he said. 

Twist and drip and arch. So delicate. Don't worry, it will all be loved and taken before it loses even an ounce of this enchanting fragility. There is no such thing as a pair of palms opening up and it spiraling out, bending each and every way as it is carried by half wind and half sky, away.

A humid room that makes it easy to play the game of forgetting for a handful of useful minutes. Wooden planks reach both up and down along each side, and he reaches out too. Clumsy fingers on lips.

"Can I kiss you?"

The air is bad in here. A negative aura. And it grows, fosters. Sometimes such an ugly setting can produce a beautiful energy.

Foot on the ground, a soft thud.

"You can't."

Dizzy eyes; they still follow.

Fingertip along black plastic, collecting dust. A new bounce to every step, along an old carpet and over carelessly tossed equipment. "What's this?"

Furrowed eyebrows, judgmental gaze.

Unbothered now, because the brand new gears have already begun to spin, sparking metal. A crooked, purposeful smile.

There it goes.

"I'll be leaving now."

A foot on the first step already. Slight turn of the neck, and, just as expected, met with lonely, pleading eyes. Mmm. Another lip curl for the road.

Who knew it would be found here? She certainly hadn't.

Watcher's Seat

          We all come to the realization at one point that nothing colossal about life can be changed, such as the possibility that it means nothing at all. However, that fact only changes the pain into a different kind of feeling, and if it was a pleasant one, I wouldn't be wrapped up in it every time I looked at the sky. Sometimes, despite the human race believing, and proving in many ways that we are superior to everything else, two or three birds fly across the sky, and with that, I feel that they've won the competition of coming closer to touching whatever it is that gives meaning to life by a long-shot. "They're stupid. They're cute. Good for making quills," we say. Then the bird, without looking at us with its black, beady eyes, arches its neck and dives a meter or two underwater, and bobs up again a few feet away. I always end up staring, in silence, and my eyes glaze over just a little bit, but they aren't little black beads.

          We try to teach each other so many lessons, and we each find ourselves believing that falling in love will take away these unpleasant feelings. Well, I'm waiting, and I'll try it. But if it doesn't work, and if after I'm done dedicating my life and writing to emotions of heartbreak and darkness and maybe even a scratch that lets light through, I'll be back on this uncomfortable stump in a forest's clearing, staring at changing, natural colors. If falling in love doesn't work, I'll sit and wait, and maybe another pelican will fly over my head and cry its ugly call as it flies off, maybe thoughtlessly, maybe not, towards the plum-tinted sky that I can only gaze at.

A.M.

Playground wishes

Hot breath

Spoken misses

Cold kisses

Your deep whispers

Muffled giggles

My bare arms

Your rigid fingers

Sheet of ink

Spilled in the sky

So darkly blotched

The stars don’t shine

Stiffened plastic

Your soft hair

Charred like coal

Bars break away

A hidden freedom

A passing smile

Quick embrace

In spilling time

Grainy sand

And then hard ground

Run fast on legs

Past crooked spines

No moon

No drought

A shared approach

A common ground

The string drags on

Through grains and rags

With reasoning

Of lucky hands

Discovery of nighttime runs

The warmth that breathes

And looks like smoke

The night plays cover

To a bold approach

Reading List

A list of good reads, in my opinion. I'll update it whenever I fall a little bit in love with another piece.(Series)
The Gone Series by Michael Grant

(Short stories)
"Overcoat" by Nikolai Gogol

"Everything and Nothing" by Jorge Luis Borges

"Borges and I" by Jorge Luis Borges

"The Life and Adventures of Shed Number XII" by Victor Pelevin
(As my professor said, "A story of a soul and its struggles".)

South American Waters

Someone make me go to bed already. Feeling peaceful.


Oars, and foam, and a watery breeze
I want someone like you
To share this with me

I can see it from here
Where I'm nowhere close
But it'll be someone like you
Brushing my arm as I gaze at the coast

And I'll hold your hand
And all will be calm
Because the person I travel the world with
That kind of fate is already etched in my palm

Chipped

But I'm not paint.

Que bells

Que sad music

Que the depths of the sea, or ocean, because it is both bluer and darker. Almost as deep as Joyce, and maybe if there is enough effort, everything wrong with the world and humanity will become so obvious, and one can be sad forever.

Sad forever, just imagine. Finding the obvious becomes an expertise.

Obviously, everything is broken, and simple steps of the day are so meaningless that it becomes a poem, and then there are barriers of complicated chemicals that we breathe, and these complications make tears tickle, but not flow.

It is the easy that makes salt water run; it is easy to be alone.

The forever game of reaching, and in all fun, even when both souls extend a hand, fingers apart, unbending, the skin will never touch. Energy flows whether the forever game goes on forever, connectivity doesn't.

I'm sorry that you're sad because life is mean.

And I'm sorry that you're sad by choice.

I'm sorry that you share his love, but you're dragging heavy fear.

And I'm sorry that there's no joke in your love; it's almost like another tragic game of forever.

Bells.

I'm sorry that your bells are laden with liquid, and mine won't make a sound.

Flipping over and over, graciously, life is not a game of forever. The board is sturdy but the pieces break, and drown; some float, but it doesn't mean water doesn't run down their throats.

Help, question point. There is no way to ask what cannot be answered. My answer is that you can't see it, you won't, it's all mine, and you ought to have too much of your own. Hardly an answer to your help, question point.

Repeat, repeat, repeat the meaningless steps, the breaths, the darting of gifted vision, the gift of hugging close everything that erodes.

You may not know mine. I may not know yours. More importantly, mine won't be known.

You can't

At me. 

There are no layers.

Silver Winter

What am I to know
Of love, or discovery, or any one of those
Emotions for the wiser, the older
I am merely halfway to the age of grown

Bundled by my parents and whisked along
Where houses with a white coat stand, slanted, side by side
While there is an air of calmness, it borders on the sad
Yet never quite reaches it, for in and throughout that, a pleasantness

The third evening, not entirely by myself
Then, in fact, I am, for seconds tend to slip me by
Stumbling behind, not yet groaning
But like a cub, fallen back, and clumsily, attempting the forward climb

This is When
Frosted white, encircling my ignorant eyes
Another trip, boot caught in ice
And, When, brown eyes flying up, I finally glance who stood before me all the while

That kind of knowing, a pause in the ticks
When in fact, you don't
And thinking harder, frozen in that stance, one foot ahead
I realize I don't, for that matter, know at all; yet still you are, and the clock goes

And how perfect, the crooked line between two lips
My mind encompasses so fast, and forgets to make you guess
And soon you call my name, like an old friend, who knew me all the while
Soon enough, you do

Of course, I never share
Sip my tea and swallow the emotions around the grown, for I am only halfway to the age where the mind matures
And fitting to that age, my eyes wander to the windows
In search of answers to questions halfway posed

So, it comes, as evenings come and go
Denial had come too, and flown
Whisked away and gently replaced with the hottest insistence
That when I see you again, it is only a matter to be expected

Perhaps, you've always known

Cradled, such a story of my own
There that crooked line stretches, mirrored
My cheeks are red, and this is mirrored
I reach out my palm, and do you mirror? Ah, but you've reached first

There is a post, with the strangest, most fitting, sparing light
If I listen, I only hear the crunch of stepping
And if not, a world of white, with a full symphony
Halfway to grown, this is the pinpoint where I cross the jagged line, past the odd angle at which our shadows are thrown

Freezing wind carves smiles in the air before us
Where the light doesn't quite reach, your steely finger brushes mine
In the quaintest winter, my heart thaws
Thank you, sweetest silver boy of time