Sunday, February 17, 2013

To Be With You

Wherever you go, I'm stumbling after you. And though you don't make me quiver and shake, I think it means I'm not afraid of you.

In the dark, my heart is whispering "you've haven't known each other for very long, but it feels like a lifetime. Don't let this go."

Tuesday, February 5, 2013


One day while we're driving through the clouds, chasing the road through the mountains, I'll turn around and ask you why you came. If you smile and say "because it sounded like a silly adventure," I'll know I'll have picked the right person to share it with me.

Where I Go

"Where do you go," you asked, "when you stare out into space?"

I told you of mystical places where the sky was forever streaked with pink and the water always ran clear. Places where all furniture hung from ceilings, and where all beating hearts were connected as one. Where zebras were spotted and giraffes were striped, and where lions had sets of horns growing through their manes.

I told you of lines that never met and train tracks that never ended; of phosphorescence that made our teeth glow green and our nails look like claws in the dark; of dizzying heights where sky became ocean again, and looming depths that crept upon you when you turned your back. I told you of the contours of a body, caught in morning light, and of faceless crowds scrambling up the outside of skyscrapers; of creatures that looked like desks, and desks that looked like creatures.

I described sorrowful music that played from the mountains in winter, embracing the pines with melody, and the tinkle of waves dancing with mermaids on island shores. I mimicked the circling carrion crows that sounded like cockatoos. I spoke of crumbling graves under curtains of light and I danced the dance of the dead. I told how I mourned the loss of it all as it dissolved into dense blackness before my eyes.

You nodded and walked away.

And it wasn't till later that I realised you were really asking if I was thinking about you.

Sunday, February 3, 2013

Of Love

What would I know of love, curled into a ball in the middle of the night, feeling the emptiness of where you're not? What would I know of love, hearing a song over the radio and wishing that I was singing it to you? What would I know of love, biting my lip and sneaking glances in your direction? What would I know of love, hoping that today you might turn around and pull me into your arms?

Nothing, I suppose.

Saturday, February 2, 2013

The Vagueness of Reality

Neither here nor there, stuck in a vague stasis between sleep and awake, a blurred reality where nothing could possibly be real. There are no chances for moving forward, nor opportunities for looking back, and everything is blank.

I want this cross roads to stop giving me chances and lead me on a straight path, where all the decisions are clear. If you're in front of me, I want to know.

Friday, February 1, 2013

Despite a Quiver

Our skin is fragments of lyrics and musical notes, etched into the pattern of lines and whirls. Some places it glows with the radiance of summer, and others, hidden in the crevices, hold the things we're too wary to speak.

Though your spark shines brighter than the dimness of the crowd, it's not your light that I want to kiss. Where your secrets linger and your lips quiver to speak, I will kiss you. When your body shivers and you're sitting at the end of your bed, I'll kiss you. When you're sticking to the shadows in the brightness of the sun, hoping that winter will never come and shatter the steadfast summer, I'll kiss you. When you're gripped with that nostalgic heartbreak, I will hold you in my arms and kiss you.

When the cold threatens to break the windows, slay the house, capture your sorrowful soul, I will keep you warm. Whatever prince you loved, whomever broke your heart, whichever pieces you're missing, I will love you.

Winter Never Comes, Paper Aeroplanes