spring equinoxmarch 20th was a grey friday --More Like This
most fridays are grey in china.
you can’t land in shanghai tired,
but i was, and i was american,
and the grey skies seemed gentle,
and not as harsh.
when you travel, they say,
you should experience the culture.
but we ate lunch at mcdonalds,
and the food was grey,
just like the sky,
and i wondered if i would see everything grey,
the second tallest building in the world is in shanghai.
it spirals up like a tall, sharp icicle,
and pierces the sky, maybe.
you can’t look up that far before the brightness blinds you.
but it’s all glass, and when the sunlight filters down grey,
you can see that it is hollow.
i sent a photograph to my mother,
and told her that i will be in that building someday.
i am afraid of heights.
and i like to think that i am comfortable with change,
but i found myself unnerved, surrounded by people,
who were just as unnerved and startled as i was
because we like to think we are special,
but when you stan
Giovanni's RoomTonight, I will hide amongst the stars,More Like This
laying your head gently against the moon as a pillow,
because the darkness of night is the softest bed sheets.
I will envelop myself in your arms,
pull myself further into the recesses of that dark cavern,
of warmth, of softness, of silence.
In the Garden of Eden,
the sun never sets.
So melt with me,
in thick, blurring pigments of pink and orange.
Drown with me,
in the Seine, in cherry blossoms.
vous êtes encore là?
Open the window, and meet me under the stars.
Don’t say a word, baby, language is cold.
I am cold.
Your hands are warm,
wrap them around my neck.
I will suffocate you in my love.
I wrote this for youI wrote this for you.More Like This
It was on the back of my favorite book –
One you’ve probably never read, let alone heard of.
It was 2:50 in the afternoon,
my leg was shaking,
I was anxious.
I’m always anxious when I think of you.
It is not romantic enough,
to make your heart beat backwards.
I am not romantic,
with chipped nails and chapped lips.
But you know everything.
You can shape the world with your hands,
so here are the stars,
I wrote them into place for you.
I can’t give you the moon,
it is too bright,
too beautiful for me.
But the stars are broken and twinkle,
beat on softly like my heart,
sparkle carefully like my voice,
And I can dot a million i’s
(and swirl a billion u’s)
and move mountains with ink,
go to the depths of the sea,
even though I always liked my inky black pen
over a navy-blue ballpoint.
I can do this for you.
And I won’t tell you my secrets,
except in strange symbols on the backs of
napkins and worn-out whispers.
all i need now.pet my hair at midnight,More Like This
hugged close against your chest.
call me “princess” –
whisper it softly, make me struggle to hear
(that you—that someone might love me)
i’ll bat my baby blues up at you.
tell me how the world works,
with your hand over mine,
but only every so lightly –
your breath soft, touch barely there
(that you – that someone is gentle enough for me)
and I will believe you.
let me follow you,
with my hair stringy in my face.
my heart beating rapidly –
from running and running and running
(like my bony legs will carry me far away)
i’ll pretend that I’ve always been chasing after you.
let me love you,
with a desperate kind of way.
my words always shaky –
my hands always shaky, body always shivery
(even if you don’t love me)
and I will be whatever you dream.
tell me this is enough,
with a deep sigh as I will never understand.
that you might be more wise –
and can see past flaws and mistakes
(i will n
lunaShe took up a handful of the dirt.More Like This
It was dry,
crumbled through her fingers.
Bony fingers, spidery hands.
Like a moth,
She’d broken through a shell,
Fragile and vulnerable,
Terribly torn from the inside out.
It was cold.
The way that broke through your bones,
nestled up against your chest,
made you shiver with each deep breath.
Like the moon,
Slivers of her cut open the sky,
Wishing she didn’t stand out.
second chances.sometimes i blink, andMore Like This
for a second, a flash of
time, i’m right back there,
i get a second
chance. i won’t let go of my
happy ending this
the one who leftfor a long time,More Like This
i refused to burn bridges.
i would not be the one,
years later to lay in the wake of ashes,
with unfamiliar faces,
but similar memories,
and regret it all.
i would not be the fool,
to pretend it all didn’t matter,
just to make myself forget.
but my ghosts do not remember me.
they haunt me, and then ask,
“who are you?”
and stare with hallow eyes,
regretting asking me.
tears stream down faces,
i am accused for abandoning it all.
it does not matter,
that i am the one who still holds our memories,
because i am the one who left.
Tuesday Mid-morning“You can write about everything,” I argued. She shook her head, her soft platinum blond hair swaying back and forth, but kept to its strict high ponytail.More Like This
“No you can’t,” she giggled, “some things are boring.”
She took a sip of her coffee, as I prepared my rebuttal. We were sitting in the middle of an over-crowded coffee shop, all of the other customers just like her, with random, bold hair styles and complex lattes in hand.
It had started out with my admittance to being a writer—she was cute and wanted to get coffee during our morning break, so I figured she’d like the type. But it quickly spiraled into a pathetic argument full of giggles while she didn’t listen to my more pathetic excuses.
“Maybe,” I agreed, “but then the topic just wasn’t written well enough.”
She watched me, her muddy brown eyes squinted and concentrated.
“Writing isn’t just a pre-warm up exercise of blah,” I