I had a dream last night;

I had a dream last night.

Remember that night me, you, and B spent at the beach in front of your house? That night, the moon shone so brightly that it made everything from the sand to our skin glow. In the parts of the world that refused to swallow the moonlight, the inky darkness was like liquid; I thought that if I dipped my toes in it, it would paint my skin black. And when the ocean waves crashed against our bare toes, do you remember how you hitched up your pants and walked out into the water, but I shook my head and refused to follow you in?

Last night, I dreamt that you and I took a rickety train to the end of the world where a whitewashed ocean met the heavens. Everything was too bright but I wasn’t quite sure whether it was night or day. It could have been both; it could have been neither. The water was a giant, churning mirror and the sky was the same color you see when you stare into the sun for too long, the hue of stinging exaltation and stupid bravery. Everything in front of me was so viciously bright that my eyes burned, but it felt like that same inky darkness from that beach in front of your house had a grip on my windpipe. I struggled for breath; I didn’t say a word. The air was so still and so charged. Everything smelled of ozone and sea salt.

It felt like at any moment, the sky above us would rip apart and we’d see oblivion. It felt like we were precariously perched on a razor thin tightrope, balanced between life and death, and I wasn’t so sure which side was more dangerous. Your eyes were the only thing keeping me from tumbling off the edge. It felt like my chest was going to burst, and when you hitched up your pants and waded out into the white water and held your hand out towards me, I took it and followed you in. 

-YWL, Aug 2012 

Without the haze of sunshine and the thick beads of perspiration threaded along the necks of dusty Coca-Cola bottles, will you love the words that bubble from the tip of my tongue just the same as when they used to be ashy and full of the grit that I frantically scrubbed away?

If they manage to crackle with the same ozone-scented promises that I made during simpler times, and if you are able to feel each rip in the atmosphere as the sun calmly bloodies the evening sky, then I want you to cradle each naked phrase between your palms, as carefully as you would a handful of ignited fireworks; gently, but boldly

without a trace
of doubt.


hollow love

That time when we quietly lay skin to skin on your sofa, the afternoon sunlight spilling in through the cracks in the windows, when every one of your exhales chased each one of my inhales, when the heat from my skin reached out to tangle with yours, when your chest hitched and hiccuped because my eyelashes kept tickling that patch of skin just underneath your jaw; I want you to know that I hated it. I hated it because I knew that, later, when my mind would bring up this hazy scene, I would feel empty, hollow of your love.

I hated it, because even though I so busily pushed myself into not loving you, you still made me feel loved. I hated it, because even if I ever forgot this hazy scene, I knew the emptiness wouldn’t fade. 

It’s all about choices, isn’t it? 

It’s all about making decisions, right or wrong, safe or reckless, big or small; the stories worth telling come only from them. Pick a path, they tell us. Choose a thread of life, hold it between your forefingers and walk alongside it towards some distant destination on the horizon, too bright to see. 

What they don’t tell us is about that feeling you get when you decide to let go of a thread and grasp desperately at another one. Maybe this one will feel better between your fingers. Maybe it’ll cut up your flesh.

It doesn’t matter; it’s your choice. Mark it, mark life with the splatters of your blood. Leave scars at the pads of your thumb, on the left ventricle of your heart, on fragile surface of your mind’s eye.

How else will you know if you’ve tried anything at all?  

-YWL, Aug 2012