Sometimes I read through things you wrote,
pretending as slow I can that
those ink stains,
those easy heart-words,
and any longing instance..
That they were all written for me.

(I'm sorry about that,
but no worries;
I still remember her face.)
 

Sh!

Hush now! Are you hearing that? It the loss of something real, and there's an echo. There's pounding, too; a pounding on the walls, the ceiling, like sky and thunder and it's trying to get out. This echo is pouring over and vibrating the house of cards we stand in, shaking down dust and old words from high tiles and shelves. The walls may not cave in, but this room will grow smaller, capturing it's occupants like ants in it's hand, and waiting. It's waiting until this something is finished, until the tremors in the walls overcome the tremors from inside; until the great shuddering we started is buried under this new fluctuation, and then the streams of stillness can run back through, gentle and rinsing away any earthquake evidence laying yet behind.

How Not to Bury Yourself in The Sand

There's chills and shivers in center stage touch, but I've yet to see acts for faith, a complete letting go of all that is grasped so tightly. It must be hard to breathe, living life so straight. I know "I wish.." is the perfect ending to rational conversation, but I wish the words of a single human life couldn't overtake the wonder of adventure. Here you are, and you can't taste fear. Brave is more, is better than waded through and wasting hushes, tentative, and failing to silence the waves of masses knowing nothing stranger than guidelines, who risk themselves -small sacrifices- for great causes yet undiscovered. These waves, they're rushes of sound from souls unknowing of chant, souls unbroken, and souls unbound. The release of meaning they have created can wash over you, and I hope that then you stand still covered with feeling as the great storm breaks for better. I wish the bounding courage, leaps of faith from unwarranted contingencies, self brought and beautiful, were something I could package, could hand over and watch new tides of understanding, but these trusts are something earned by chance alone. Embrace clearly what's safe, yet feel free to let go of all else; relinquishing the control over nothing which here alone is gripped so desperately.

In Saying

Just words. That is what I'll speak when asked for a secret, or in breaking a promise. That's all I could hope to find in asking questions; what I'll have to articulate in asking it. I'm lost for words, just words, and when mouths are open, nothingness comes out. I've seen empty space meaning more than I can portray with words, just words, but imagine what could be done with consonants, vowels; small affirmations not built to be sturdy, steady, broken or lost.  Let's balance on syllables, conceive quotations still silent. I want definiteness; I practice speeches for causes as people. An apology for forgiveness; prayer for pride saved. A lecturing lot of chosen words to take selected enemy from where they are and slamming them into dirt or lower, covering them with shards, fragments of reality to cut and bruise. There are speeches to give off hope, pieces of uplifting clauses clumsily stuttered together; but biting bits of reality tangible and comforting. None of this is includes that which I'll say, or help to recite these constantly changing words that I can't locate to relay, pin down, seize sure hold of. Questions should only come from people wanting answers, and several uncertainties later, I'll put forth questions myself. I want the satisfaction of simple words to throw about, conviction, and certitude in saying just words

Give Me This

I want to bend with the flow of feeling, resist the rush of chaos I carry, and contour with the curves of the dark sky's floor. I'm going to wait until the tides of steep water carry away the rest of the crew, and I'll not break until there is no one, and no thing left for me to love and be for. I can wave in the winds wailing, wearing on us like the stones we stand as, but how can I sway and stay rooted, somber or on my own? Hand over a self, so as to build an us, a pair, a tango, turbulence and travesties as a set; a reason to be weathered by worry, resistance, banes of our short existence, or cold shoulders from these warm hearts.

Sweet

Sweet is an early morning stillness where the sky is dark and you are my light, where I find my gravity. There's static in the air, and a susurrus I want to hear. Sweet is the taste of 'I love you,' on careful lips, what I haven't yet promised, the way you look at me, and how you say my name. Sweet is what I'd like to be with you, and sweet has all my hope. It's breathing in time, requited wishes, and thinking alike. Sweet is hearing your heart beat, my hand on your chest, your breath in my hair. It's what I want to be, how I want to be, where I want to be.

Line from Places I Wrote: Remnants from My First Finished Journal

"Lines from Places," I wrote, dark hush. Quiet pour in a few star sky- it lights up with world with brilliance unseen.

These are just homeless things I've put on paper. Wasting phrases, lacking order, sense, feel of rhythm, place. Mostly place, in celebration of my finished first journal. 

 I'm going to say a lot of words, and some should come out wrong. Some aren't going to match, yet some will be just right. These are the ones which worry me.
Don't tune someone out to accuse them of changing their song.
Withdrawal from people is the warning sign of a much worse condition.
There's always the taste of the rain and you. We'll love more than forgetting.
Hearts on sleeves and up in throats. Silly little notions we lose and forget, even though they brought about a world of background.
There's no music left, just the tumbling words falling around us like dust still settling; hearts and heads aching together.
Our irrational things are always the best.
Shadows in the brightness cause affection, but that doesn't allocate one the right to hide. Stand proud in fear; love loudly.
Start our riot, be so in love, speed me up, find solace in corners.
There's only great sleep for those who don't think or don't have to.
Stars look like city lights, and people look like voices should they talk loud enough.

A Desperate Love Letter to a Concept I Can't See

Dear Destiny,

We need to talk. I can't take this back and forth; this uncertainty and fast reliances. I know you've been busy, but I think we should take some time for us, my Fate. We're up in the air, here, and nothing short of a compromise or fast decision will bring us the gravity we've been craving, hoping for so desperately. I don't need much to work with, but you aren't giving any to start, and this is a working relationship. By that, I mean that we don't fit. When shoved together in circumstance, you and I don't line up, don't create something new. We kind of mesh, and we'll have to work to make sure you and I don't just fall apart. I'm really sorry, Destiny. I've never been good with relationships so untangible like this. But, you see, neither one of us is moving forward, as people up in thick, metephor filled air tend to have troubles with, and that's a problem. I can't hold still, I fidget while I float, and I can't help but say that I'm still blaming you for getting us stuck up here. I know what you meant, Destiny, but hiding things from me like that is the helium to these paper balloons. Everything's so precarious, now, falling and tumbling down so as to be saved by reflexes of unlikely strangers. You can't count on these things, you can't assume things will fall into place because you knew how to knock them over. Life doesn't work that way, Destiny. Be rational.

Signed,

A Sunday Kind of Love