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

September 2nd

I was so angry I stood, forgetting why I sat; so angry I stopped, forgetting why I walked; so angry I unclenched my fist, forgetting what's done with free, angry fingers. I thought I knew what was wrong with you. I thought I knew the catch. In a world of uncertain, changing things- a world of terrible, untrustable things you were the light. You were the good, the wholesome relief, a breath of safe air. You were the unchangeable human being that leaked around fast conversions, absorbing the tremors, and leaving this to ease into something new. I thought I knew what was wrong with you, and it was chained in a corner of you, cold, and you were ashamed just like oddly amazing people always are, always seem to be. But here we stand, looking, both of us losing sight of who you actually are, actually used to be. This isn't brave, isn't an act justifiable. Not an act of self sacrifice, it's a sell out story, a jest to be wiped off lips like harlot lipstick, and just as disappointing.