Desire.

I, girl, may like you, boy.

But between the two of us,

we have a pair of hearts more

scar tissue than beating; and four

hands reaching out desperately

for the ghosts of love slipping

through these fingertips.

We both know the meaning

of the word longing far more than

we should. And desire is just another

crack, a break forever in our already

crumbling ribcages. You and I

both know that desire comes

from the Latin, sidus. That means

star. To desire means wanting to bring

the stars down to you. But you and I both

know that to obtain the objects of our

desire has the same likelihood of

happening as staying up all

night and urging the stars down

to earth. You and I call out other names

in our sleep; neither of us is looking for love –

just someone to hold through the night.

Maybe I, girl, love you, boy; or maybe

it’s just your smile. In the darkness,

it’s hard to tell the difference.

Drive and Driving.

I write to comprehend the things I do not understand. I write to experience the things I do.

I write because our universe is so vast that almost anything that could possibly happen should, and yet only a finite amount of things are truth. I write because we live in an incomprehensible cosmos that contains stardust and meteors, and yet you and I are an impossibility. I write to believe in six impossible things before breakfast. I write because of all the possibilities that never did come true.

I write to feel more alive than the constants of the blood pumping through my veins allow. I write to save every single breath ever taken away from me, to capture the moments in the fleeting nature of time. I write because I lack faith in my memory, which fails me even now.

I write because I can.

I write because I must.

I write because I must be searching for something I can’t quite understand just yet. I write because the answer is on the tips of my fingers every time I hold a pen shaking in my hand – ever just out of my grasp, I just haven’t found the words for it.

I write to drive down the highway of understanding, windows down and music blaring. I write because the songs on the radio are never meant for me, and nothing is perfect enough that my heart can beat contentedly.

I write because my heart breaks every time I stop. I write because it’s the only thing that keeps me sane. I write because the words were there when no one else was. I write because I am on the edge of a cliff and every letter, every metaphor, every punctuation mark reminds me not to jump off.

I write to fly. I write because sometimes freedom means a blank page and black ink.

I write to answer the questions I never dared to ask myself. I write to hold universes in the palm of my hands. I write to jump at the stars.

I write because it is all I have ever known.

The shoe didn’t fit her.

I used the think that you and I were a foregone conclusion, that no matter how much I would throw at this relationship, you would always come back to me.

In the halcyon you were by my side, making the sun shine all that much brighter. And yet in the depth of half-shadows in the vault of heaven, you evaporated before I realized your disappearance.

And now, in this darkest of dark nights, in the abapical dismays of loss, you are gone once more. Fleeting shadows dancing on the lines where my heart still breaks after all this time.

I used to think that ours was a fairytale I could never mistake. I rested on the laurels of my conquering of your heart, assured in my belief that my own happily ever after was certain, somehow, somewhere.

I guess it was not. Because now the promises you left me of everlasting love now transfer to another. I should have known.

In a way, I was right. You were a Prince Charming (maybe not my own, but a hero in your own right). But the shoe just didn’t fit me.

12:53 AM

My eyelids flutter shut again and again. A butterfly darting back to the leaf. My hands reaching out to yours but always returning here, to hold my aching heart. 

And why is it that now, I can finally rest this weary head, now I cannot close my eyes at all. 

Stronger.

You may feel like the rotating of 
the earth is shaking you off faster than
you can hold on; but remember no matter 
how fast it goes, gravity is stronger.

You will forget the joy and your brain
will sometimes spin with lack of dopamine,
but sadness is just a brain missing chemicals
that happiness reminds it to make, and you are stronger.

You may feel like this darkness is eternal
and so long as the earth spins around the sun
the sunrise will always come eventually
and hope for tomorrow is always stronger.

You and I and all the people you love
will one day fade and die and oblivion is inevitable,
but the energy in your molecules will not dissipate,
it will transfer on to beautiful things; your memory is stronger.

Your atoms are 99.999% empty space
and some days you will feel the void
in your very being, slipping; but the forces 
holding all of this nothingness together are stronger.

Your heart is a muscle and muscles do not break;
they only tear, and when muscles 
feel pain stirring them from their quiet rest, 
they can only ever grow back stronger.

You are made of stardust, yes
but you are also made of carbon
and carbon under pressure turns 
into diamond; infinitely stronger.

And maybe sometimes the gravity 
holding your feet onto this earth may 
feel like it is breaking but floating 
has never felt so much like soaring.

And you are stronger.

Uhtceare

although the dawn has not yet broken

(funny how we say daybreak, as if the

night were so fragile that we must hold

it with utmost care lest it slips through

our outstretched fingertips), i am awake.

my heart already pounds in my chest

because my ribcage is a prison that it

longs to break free from, tiptoeing away

in the cover of the darkness, before i

can hardly realize it has already left me

my mind already races flitting from one

thought to another; it cannot contain its

ramblings while the sun has not arrived,

and the blue of day has only just began

to tinge the sky with brand new promise.

i am at the point in life when people begin

to say i am at the cusp of new beginnings

(as though a beginning can be old, really?)

this is new. and yet the new still rings with

hints of the past i can no longer call mine

the ghosts of old mix with new monsters

filling this mind with doubts heavier than i

and perhaps i am not yet ready, perhaps

this symphony i have been preparing must

remain in the silence for a longer while yet

because people are terrifying and i do not

know how to use an ATM machine; how

can i be expected to figure problems out

on my own (i have done it before but can i

do it again? i don’t think i can do this. no.)

the world is too big and too scary and the

universe is too vast and infinite; i am just

petrified at the thought. my hands are still

too small to hold dictionaries, how could i

ever carry the weight of my entire world?

the coming day is looming like something

out of a horror story; instead of dark and

mysterious it is terrifying because i know

exactly what this will entail, what the light

will bring is scarier than any uncertainty.