Like a raindrop in a river, she pours her heart into me. (Always into me.)
Cast me in ashen grey because no matter who I’m with it is your name I whisper under my breath. No matter how lovely the soul, they just don’t possess the hands I wish to hold, to inhale.
Count to three. (One. Two. November.) The years that pass so slowly and too quickly all the same.
“On and on, to the beat of our noisy hearts.”
Areyoulistening?
Canyouhearme?
Festina Lente (Make Haste Slowly)
Festina Lente
Festina Lente
Festina Lente
Festina Lente
Festina Lente
Festina Lente
Festina Lente
Festina Lente
Festina Lente
Festina Lente
Festina Lente
Festina Lente
Festina Lente
Festina Lente
Daily reminder…
If my to-do list was empty, I’d write a letter to every name I know.
“You’re like spring time but the sun sever sets. The trees and flowers are always in bloom. The grass is cool and moist, welcoming us to play and frolic all day. I want to be that warm, soft breeze that sweeps across that open field just to kiss your face and comfort you whispering “Everything is alright. You’re safe here.” “
Boys are so beautiful.
This one in particular.
I like him.
JM.
Covered in Rain.
(Source: healmybrokenjaw)
Jumping out of airplanes. Twisting rain drops like feathers into my hair. Streaked with garden dirt and laughter. I’ve clouds knotted in my eyes like flowers, white with pink edges. Slippers cocked sideways, hiding wiggling toes and the excitement of a five year old (me). Clad in freckles and exposed skin. Bikini hunting and on the prowl for something wild.
Paint me in your favorite colors. Fold my name into your favorite song.
Because I’m not stopping ‘til I’ve taken over.
It is like a wildfire:
resilient, gorgeous, overbearing,
elusive in its intentions,
enviable in its persistence.
I have you all tangled in my chest and when they whisper your name, I shudder - My world breaks and mends in a cycle of memories. It’s the way you move. It’s the air you breathe. It’s the tremble in your hands as you brush the hair off of my cheek.
It’s the way I crave you every other memory (from places I long wish were dormant, for they seem to be shaped just perfectly for you to fall in - fill to the brim with images of willow trees, sunsets, and the color orange). You fostered that - my favorite color, the name of my muse… so many things about myself were nurtured by you.
And when she says your name, I stutter. Trip in my steady steps, knees scrapping against the upward stairs. (I think I cut them on the stars when you sent me a letter on Jupiter saying “Please. I miss you.”)
I’ve felt that all along.
I can pick you out of a crowd just by the way you move.
I believe in billboards and machines
swallowed like adderall inside of me -
little cities in my lungs.
Just to breathe.
Just to breathe.
The silver loop on my right hand,
“Faith” beneath my thumb
spinning, spinning, spinning -
a ballerina’s tale.
Sunset’s dawn.
Sunset’s dawn.
Take me home (where my heart is)
Follow tethered strings of horizon lines
A web of laughter and lies,
Because Mayer said it best -
“It always comes around back to you.”
It must be the way you move
I have eyes of an underground spring,
yet unfound.
Bubbling against a slate stone top,
never leaking-lifting.
I hang heavy with notes,
chest heaving, pumping
oxygen like an accordion - uneven,
unpredictable.
Driven by the hands that hold
Things that hold me down.
You.
Sunsets.
Barren skys.
Frets on an acoustic guitar.
It is always your hands playing.
Color me with the breath of your acoustic guitar.
I just need to see your fingers on the frets to know the dawn is coming.
The world will right itself.
With you playing the sunrise
A breakfast of notes and sincerity.
Pretty please.
In your blue jeans and bare chest.
Callouses like proud tattoos
standing on your fingertips,
soilders defending your out pour
of creative expression -
The only way you know
to say “Good morning,”
”Sweet dreams,”
”I love you like a lullaby,
whispering into my ear.”
I feel you.
Out of all of the words in the dictionary, when you speak to me all I am left with is the tender pull of muscles in my cheeks.
“Say anything.”
“All I can do is smile.”
The terror you see in someone’s eyes when you’re watching them try and scrounge the broken pieces of their life into something that may have - even the tiniest of flickers - of hope.
Because without hope we are nothing. And he’s on the edge of oblivion.
Whisper, “Take my hand and run with me. I can’t fly, but I will show you how to breathe.”
