"Just be you and be happy with that"

But me is someone who hides within herself,
who wants to express but swallows her words,
whose lips are made of tape from an abandoned shelf
which collapsed on the body of broken birds.
Being happy about that just seems absurd.

In a dark garden

Eve:

Once, and that time only, the inquiry crept like heroin

in a panicked dove’s veins, and oh I tell you, how bright and dark

the universe metamorphosed in his caramel pooled eyes! I daren’t attempt

even the slightest remark towards description of such Yin-Yang beauty,

but it concerns me deeply that he does not know, that I cannot say—

well, not aloud. And it became clear, like new windows from a billionaire’s factory,

like a bloody rose on black grave, time and potential moments were fading

too fast, as the Shire horses raced his carriage away.

What would you do, observer, standing there while purpose flies?

Or, of course, perhaps none of this matters to you, but please

show more empathy than my diary; listen affectionately, different from these

square, blank walls. I tried reaching, to hold on to him.

God yes, I’ll admit now that I am alone here:

I love him the way the sun adores the moon; she dies every evening

to give him breath and sky. I cherish him like a drop of water after a month

of thirsting, like the first day of summer after a decade of winter.

I love him beyond the reaches of Heaven, and further.

But I say this to my writing desk, pen, paper, ink, emotionless tiled floor,

and empty bed. How I wish he were lying in it, close to me.

Can my confession secure his warmth? Can it cure bluing ribs?

Any second now, it could all end. Any second, and the ticking

is merciless, and white diamond fever will consume fast.  

Why, when my dream bent down on one knee, was I drunk with silence?

Why didn’t I say—

[Funeral bells chime in the distance.]

Eve: Oh Adam, take me with you!

Once upon a summer..

"There's more artwork on every one of your goosebumps than there is across the entire world."

His warm, slender fingers slow-danced across my shivering, bare collarbone.

"You are so beautiful, especially in the midst of this scenery."

A tranquil ocean wave climbed eagerly to kiss our entangled toes, his legs slightly bent for the pleasureful gesture.

"Your skin is lovely."

Soft, white sand savored the form of our sighing bodies, molding into the shape of our entanglement.

"You're too far away."

There wasn't a millimeter between our souls.

"Happy birthday, you gorgeous angel," he breathed hotly into my ear, pulling my back tighter to his chiseled chest.

My heart raced.

His teeth effortlessly pierced the flesh of my neck.

"Happy birthday, my love."

I gasped quietly into the endless expanse of blue sky above. I could see Heaven.

Deletion

All I did was slide my finger accidentally-

then, it deleted.

I can't get it back. Searching is pointless.

Anger is tightening in the pit of my stomach;
at the same time, I feel numb.

I describe what happened aloud, but
whomever heard laughed sympathetically.

At first, it felt like a chord had been cut
between myself and the thing I desire most.

I was going to let you know. Now, I'm not sure.

Will you also be infuriated, hurt? No,
at least it didn't happen to you; thus, a lack of full empathy.

My head is congested and my neck is stiff;
my stomach is hosting a brick; my eyes see nothing.

Where did it go? Can I save it?
Like a hopeless lover, I check chance again.

How could I have been so careless?
The moment passed quickly, less than an instant.

In that time, I erased time-
time that you still find and I have completely lost.

If I had copied down a few favorite segments,
maybe I could forgive the mistake.

The good and the plain vanished before I blinked.
Proof of existence went with them.

The only sentiment lingering is nostalgia,
such as when I sorely miss the taste of sweet dreams.

Like a dream, it faded away and bitter reality woke.
That pain, if you know it, is an understatement.

And yet, oddly enough, I feel slight relief;
the evidence of my entire association is gone.

Perhaps you should get rid of it immediately,
and we'll start afresh with wisdom.

I won't know what to do when another comes along
because the scar is there, permanently.

What do other people do? And you?

Violent emptiness hangs in the air.
Perfect words are like tomorrow's rain; sorrow and sensitivity remain.

Gift

don't look

don't peak

it's a surprise

a secret

you want to know

but don't open your eyes

i'll show you

hold on

wait

something's

out of place

i fixed it

almost done

there

you want it

here you go

move your hands

open your eyes

go ahead

unwrap it

make a mess

no one cares

it's for you

keep it

yours

a gift

my heart

Candlelight

I need you close, candlelight, this house is so cold.

Six days a week, slipping on icy floors, shivering on a rotten mattress,

watching the sun grow old.

The shutters creak and fling open; the wind freezes my butter and toast.

A thousand blankets could not melt this tundra;

why aren’t you there when I need you most?

Once a week, candlelight, you flicker into existence with a smile.

My frown delights, heart excites, body feels sweet slumber—

can’t you, I beg, stay a longer while?

As night draws near, you disappear, without even a smoke trace.

My hands remember, my lips are tender, my mind hopes:

perhaps tomorrow, candlelight, you will love my face.

But tomorrow you are elsewhere; the day after is too soon.

Six days must pass, flipping over the waiting glass—

long, pretty sunrise and bright lonely moon.

I wonder sometimes,

if it would’ve been easier

never to have known you…

Masterpiece

The moment when he looks at you and there’s your reflection,

clear like this morning in the mirror before you arrived

but now your hair’s messed up and your nose looks swollen,

and the wrinkles under your eyes reveal fatigue, age, 

the way you pull at your skin when wiping off liner - 

and you think to yourself, mid-way reminiscence,

 “I’ve really got to stop doing that”

but also, “Wow.” Just wow.

The moment when he looks at you - and you’re all he sees.

The nice outfit, the spot on your cheek. 

You’ve been lost for a long time, decades maybe,

but he's found you now, eyes wide, calm, staring.

The imperfections mesh with flawlessness;

it’s a live portrait, so you don’t move. 

This is his viewpoint: he accepts you,

petals and thorns, rips and holes, dirt and dust,

he wants all of it. Every junkyard scrap and rusty corner,

your flat butt and small chest, the stress episodes and indecisiveness,

your inability to relax sometimes when nothing is going on,

the constant fretting that drives him up the wall,

or whatever is specific to your body and who you are.

He wants you. 

It’s in his eyes, miles away or an inch apart. 

He watches when you arrive, the time you’re there,

when you leave. He doesn’t want to miss a minute of you.

“I love you,” he says. “I love all of you.”

It’s hard to believe it when you look in the mirror - 

the mirror isn’t alive, doesn’t know you, and doesn’t really see you;

it just reflects your own interpretation of yourself.

Ugly, pretty, depends on the day, your mood, how long you slept, 

whether you’re sick or not, the tiny details of your makeup:

this is your self-image. Your viewpoint. Most of the times, it’s hurtful. 

You’re just never good enough.

And then that moment comes, when he looks at you - 

and you realize how beautiful you are to someone.

You are a work of art, every bump, every hair, every cell in your body.

You are the calm and the storm, the summer heat and winter breeze.

You are a blend of colors and textures, softer on some days, a stubborn rock on others.

You are high as Cloud 9 and low as an old oak’s roots,

you are the northern star in a black sky, and the black sky to a northern star. 

You are sugar in lime, a pearl in sand, an oil painting with smudges.

You are you. It was done on purpose.

Look in his eyes and you’ll see, you are nothing less than a masterpiece.