twc*

Dear May,

I didn’t give you a warm welcome on the day of your first arrival. I’m all caught up in living, in moving forward, in finding happiness. I’ve been trying to understand change and be okay with it. I think I’m learning from it and achieving growth and wisdom. I’m ready for the adventures, dear May. I’m ready to enjoy the smallest moments and to make each day count. Be kind. Be honest. Be helpful and generous. Be a dear friend that has the softest intentions for me. Offer me strength through the rough and the bad. Shed light during the lows and the dark. Provide comfort and tenderness. I’m quite anxious about the future, and I’m trying to learn to let go of it and just focus on the present. I want to seize the day and live in the moment. Carpe diem. I’m getting there. Slowly, but surely. I’ll get there eventually.

Echo

Daybreak cuts in with the sound
of the rain changing shapes and scents,
high forests turning to gorges,

waterfalls chasing the cliffs.
All at once you are hit by the familiar
sound of her calling, far

and fugitive, for you. Survived
by the silence of lightning, it flits, swift,
across the widening chasm

between what you should have said
and what caught in your spine,
cleaving the sky apart.

A rose blooms in your throat,
a dangerous one, breathing heat now
into your late confession,

switching pitch, tone falling gently,
like thighs shifting, trailing like sheets.
Admit you’d say anything

to retract the caress in your voice,
and the songs that were dirges once
in the wake of trysts gone awry,

they sound as if you still have her,
as if you didn’t send her, hair dripping
from the storm, into another’s arms.

the tongue of land i am in

my frown is father is mother is daughter- is
less like a fawn left in coppice
but like driftwood bleached porous / i’d mother-
language porös
mine,
culls at the good
end
its imperialism smells
of honesty -  the weather is
a tongue of land

the atlas tells me i am north
i finger south / believe i am in.

There are days where we all
wish distance was a dance floor
narrow enough to cross in one fell swoop.
That state lines and border crossings
could be folded up and cut out to make
the space between your heart and my heart
smaller, turn the dissipated distance into
origami or confetti raining something resembling
warmth and laughter onto bare heads
but sadly this world isn’t that easy.
Only a third of this dance floor we call home
can hold us and two thirds of the people we call
our own have two left or two right feet.
Some days I wake up and I know that someone else
out there is walking with my other foot on their body
and we have to dance out the routine anyway. 
We all have days where life is a rhythm we just
can’t dance to. Where the distance is an aching, gaping
hole the whole world could fill and it wouldn’t
bring us any closer, but break out the maps.
Lay down the steps one by one by one
and you will see we are moving closer, that the earth
is moving us closer - she quakes, she shakes, she dances
and even the parts of the dance floor we can’t dance on
dance with us too, we watch the waves waltz with the winds
every second of every day somewhere. 
Maybe on the days we can’t dance as hard, 
it’s because the waves have stolen our feet, or the scissors
we used to cut away the distance between us cut 
just a little too close.
— 

The Rhythm We Dance, 

dedicated to metaphorsandmadness - my 1000th follower, 
and poppyflowerpoetry - my friend

megan practices ballet on the roof, asks ‘how long do you think I can
stay up here before people start to get suspicious of my intentions?’
          here’s a rule of thumb:
almost everything you do is just fine right up until somebody
hands you medicine for it

quick, someone look up a meaning for the word 'human’
– no, not the noun I mean the adjective
ok, 'forgivable.’
wow how great is that? and what a relief too! and the trees laugh & the frogs
laugh & the dirt laughs & everything else in the universe laughs
          knowing humans wrote the dictionary

i’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea that things
exist even when there’s not a word for them.
          'like you know what I mean like that feeling you have when you’re
alone in an airport for a 3 hr layover in a city where no one you know
lives
           & you hear someone say your name
                       & in that brief moment before you realize they’re talking
           to somebody else, you look up.
why isn’t there a word for that very specific kind of loneliness?’

When I first started learning how to draw, my teacher always told me to draw what you see, and not what you think is there. Sure, you may perceive things differently than they are, but don’t get so lost in the clouds that you make things not what they seem, find the in between.
—  reality is an art in itself
When the birds first came,
The days stretched before us
Like a million-mile promise
And we could not tell our feet to
Stop chasing the horizon,
Hands extended, reaching toward the sun,
So sure that if we kept trying we could
Capture the light in our fingertips.
Every hill was a mountain and
When we reached the top we were conquerors;
The world was our kingdom and
As we sat on our throne
We watched the sparrows dance
With the clouds
And so mesmerized were we that we
Raced through the grass and our
Arms became wings, and
Not a soul could have convinced us
That we were not really flying.
When the sky deepened,
Robin’s-egg blue to
Diamond-studded sapphire,
The songbirds went to bed while
The owls rehearsed a new melody.
We delighted in each note and
As we laughed there was
Stardust on our breath
And the man on the moon envied
The glow of our features.
We were astronauts;
The universe unfolded around us
And we didn’t need a ladder to
Climb to the constellations,
We had wings.
We sailed through the skies,
Made friends with Orion and tried on his belt,
Closed our eyes as we drifted off to dreamland.
The birds flew south when the
Winds began to change,
Calling their farewells to the land as
They flashed patterns through the sky,
And we watched them, mouths ajar,
Tiny hands waving endlessly at
Flocks that carried memories on their backs and
Freedom in their feathers,
Not a worry in the world that
They might not return in due course.
The first snow of the season was
Magic
And when we ran outside to
Watch as crystal pieces of the sky
Floated down, glittering,
Before they melted on our tongues,
We could could not help but believe in
The infinity of tiny miracles that
That lived just past our doorstep.
But as the winter plowed on,
The sky faded to leaden grey and
The snow became tainted, tired, and
We grew restless and heavy with our
Longing for
Spring, for
New life, for
The return of the birds and
The freedom to fly amongst them.
And so we waited and we hoped,
But instead of sparrow and songbird
We found mourning doves that
Nested in our chests and
Tuned our heart strings to a minor key,
Ravens that perched in the foggy light of dawn and
Sang tunes of nevermore into our ears,
Vultures that circled overhead and
Made us fear the very skies that
Once held every distant dream.
—  The birds. // J.S.

Do you wanna love me?
Do you wanna be my special friend?

(Hm)

Do I wanna love you?
Do I wanna be your special friend?

(Hm)

This is not a question
of do or do not.

-

Maybe if I told you,
can we or can we not?

(Hm)

I am a bit lonely.
I am a bit weird.

Maybe I am not your type.
Maybe I am all wrong.

-

Maybe you are my type.
Maybe I like the weird.

Maybe I am also a little bit lonely.
Maybe we can be wrong like together.

(Hm)

A Song, Carried on the Wind

Play your song for me
Naturally enthralling
Endeared through time
Dance on the notes
Like stepping stones
On a flowing river.

Sing those words to me
Sweet tuneful wisps
Enthralling hypnotics
Step in time to them
Flowing through you
Like water between rocks.