NiñaEstrella

I’m like a closed book,

With it’s spine only cracked once by a curious girl who knew there were secrets inside.

Only open me if you think you can handle the notes written in bled ink that will come tumbling out.

Sometimes it’s different,
But it’s always the same. 
I’d try to explain but you would shake your head and tell me that I’m an old woman.
Sometimes I’m here,
But I’m always there.

It’s quiet up here
On the eighth floor
Where the boards are creaky and the window lets in a draft.
Sometimes we’ll listen to the radio and let the broken sounds of the talking fill the empty rooms.
It’s a secret to be here

Good poetry reminds me of swinging outside on a hammock

With the sun making shadows on my book

And closing my eyes to listen to the birds.

Good poetry is the crunch of an apple

Sometimes when I think of 1 I think of
A man sitting by himself at that one beach shop that no one really goes to
Drinking their special of the day (pinapple mango smoothie)
Staring out at the ocean

The clack of my keys on my tiny glass screen
Sounds like a dance
On a wooden stage in tap shoes
My space bar makes a lower sound than the alphabet keys
So it becomes a song
For me
Sitting on my couch