Romance is…?

Bold and blurry dotted lines and fluttering butterfly hearts. My fingers reach for yours in the dark, though my other hand clings to sleep for the fear of waking from this dream.

Do you dream of me?

A dozen roses only live for half a dozen days. Love fades away, but will you stay? Long after the last withered petal has hit the ground and only thorns remain, will you stay?

I blush at your gaze and I blame the heat on a cold and rainy day. I hold you far away and toss the red string that never unravels; it just won’t break.

I’m afraid of you, I hate to say. I hate the way I feel so fragile when you seem so brave. Love has never seemed to play kindly with my heart, and if there are any more fragments of it left to break I would much rather toss them all away.

And still I ponder on what romance is. I covet it, a thing I’m not quite sure exists. A thing I’m not able to miss as I’ve not had it. And still I obsess over the chances of a nervous first kiss, of innocent lips with no lies and no lust. Of friendship, of trust.

Do you wonder too? Or has age made you bitter like me, and you’d rather only be with me for one night? I’d hate to wake in another stranger’s bed, full of dread with all of my dreams wilted and dead – Like a dozen roses, six days in.

Earthquakes!

Faces.

Bits of age old places; barbed wire fences in smiling braces.

Furrowed brows the farm-rows before the crops,

Teary eyes the waterfalls and then the sparse rain drops.

Earthquakes!

Hearts shudder and pound violently out of control.

Sparse flaws on the skin; soft little knolls,

Moon craters, crevices and sun-spot moles.

Folding ocean surface ripples, delicate creases and wrinkles.

Bright eyes, starry skies, glittery make up and colorful dyes,

Algae blooms’ impending doom and faint hair highlights – plant-derived.

Summer breezes sighs of delight, warm breathes and sun-bleached sights.

Earthquakes!

Panicked shaking, tsunami waves and crippling fright.

Morning dew on green grass blades, beads of sweat on blushing faces,

Bird songs echoing in the day, melodies repeated on radio stations.

Your smile: so eternal, eroded into the mountainous region.

Earthquakes….

My heart still tremors. Your smile remains after all of the seasons.

Things with Wings

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These trumpeting geese wake me every day. Their deep voices carry in the foggy morning rain.

I ponder upon how it is that many things with wings found light ligaments in place of their feet:

A bat is just a rat that finally took flight to escape the plight of the destitute streets.

A caterpillar would be a worm, but at some point it learned that beauty could be found underground, or buried deep in a cocoon.

With silk woven without a loom the worm still weaves the softest cloth. So why do we think the butterfly is so much more beautiful than the moth?

Its dusty wings are dull and tattered like our neglected things atop our mantles, or the wardrobes’ cobweb-laden wedding gown

Left with whimsical memories of the freed doves – and the dove is just a pigeon that we love for her soft, white down.

But does the pigeon know that we see her as a clown? Why is she the pauper while her sister wears the crown?

And lastly, the crying girl who leans over her balcony finally dives into the sky with her good-byes damp on her pillowcase.

She didn’t fly then, but found her wings in the pile of things discarded from her room shortly after her guest-less wake.

Her body slumbered, forgotten, slowly sinking to the bottom of the geese’s’ foggy lake

Where the vultures can’t find her and feed down to her bones; where all of the things with wings can never travel, she rests alone.

But in the sky she’s learned to fly with the bats at night and the geese at dawn, and through the day all of the things with wings preen her feathers and sing her songs.

The same things who couldn’t grow wings carry on. Undaunted still, though not yet angels, they simply meander along.

A Wish on a Waning Moon

The softest of footsteps move down the hall, impossible for me to hear were it not for my vivid imagination. Curled up in satin sheets, daylight winks through the slanting blinds and stripes the bed with molten silver. Throughout the crack beneath the door, I spot your toes pause outside, your hand on the doorknob although the hinges hang open.

Why don’t you come inside?

My mind spins and my heart hammers until my stomach aches. How long do I have to wait? Time has me frozen here, my knuckles red from gripping the bed covers so tightly.

The door is open….

Yet the handle doesn’t twist. A shuffle against the dark wooden floor and I don’t see your shadow there anymore. I’d lift my head, but I’m paralyzed, still as stone in the crevice I’ve embedded into the mattress.

You don’t have to stay for long.

A cold sweat works up my face. I just need to move, just a little bit. To part my lips and cry for you to come back.

But I can’t….

I have no voice, I make no sound that your ears are capable of hearing. Is it because you don’t want to hear me? Because you don’t love me at all. I know this, but still, I’m warm and I have a beating heart. I bleed and I feel. Just tell me that it’ll be alright. Hold me one more time. Give me something to feel.

I fear that I’ve turned to stone, and time will no longer wake me in the morning. I’ll never move forward. I’ll never be somebody. I’ll never hope again.

The light through the sheer curtains pools onto the floor. Shadows move, but I can’t. I’m paralyzed. I’m a shattered doll. I’m a broken rose. I’m an eyesore.

In a world without warmth, I’m frozen still, too cold to move. The day is waiting for me, the sun fatigued, and yet I haven’t budged from my pillow. My skin is stuck to the cloth with tears like hot glue. My pained breaths echo through the room.

I just can’t move.

And until I do, I’ll bask in the rays of an eternal noon. The stars won’t come out to consider my fancies. My wishes float idly toward the ever waning moon.