Love is felt most when its leaving 

We cry for what once was 

What could’ve been

For the people We once were 

Watching as it leaves

Weary eyes, and tired feet 

We can only truly love what cannot stay
 

Oh, Bird, tell me how does it feel to float on wings of ivory and gold?
What is it like to have the world at your fingertips? 
Tell me of the world beyond these acres, 
Of the thrilling adventures in which you sing. 
Oh, Bird, tell me why, after the beauty and wonder you have seen, 
You sit perched on my window, reminiscing.
Tell me if there is such comfort in farmiliarity.
Why do I long to see the world beyond the bounds of normalcy?
Oh, Bird, I cannot ignore the queries that pull at my heartstrings begging for resolution. 
Tell me, if you do not have all the answers, then who does?
Oh, Bird, bring me with you as you fly away.
You leave unanswered questions in your wake.
 

My life has a soundtrack, bluesy rock that sounds like cooking with my grandfather on Sunday afternoons, mild indie rock that feels like cool fall air, and walking on pine needles, early 2000’s alternative that smells like cinnamon and my mothers perfume like leaf piles and peppermint tea. Noah Kahan and The Avett brothers memories that are smoky and vaguely sweet like fresh lemonade screaming with my best friends oblivious to reality. Flushed faces from laughing, crowded rooms filled with familiar faces, the remnants of an abandoned game of pictionary on my grandparents table alongside empty wine glasses. 

Arguments with the demon 

Traced on the landscape of a night in May 

Melancholic shadows, the gray of memory  

The enigma of truth, tangled with spectral whispers.




Lume of my mind,

E t e r n a l controversies, abandoned window shows the gray of living 

Melancholic memories- 

Incomprehension of truth like fiction 

Lies. 

The years of infancy swept away  

What will I love if not the design of my mind? 



 

Hazy hot days when the early morning dew disappeared long before sleepy eyes opened, the sun peaking through the window far too early. For me though, it is the perfect alarm clock.The baby pink of my walls look orange with the yellow of morning sunlight. My legs are too short to reach the floor, dangling carelessly from my bed, toes painted iridescent blue. Eight years old, not yet tall enough to reach my own tooth brush from the shelf, only able to watch my eyes alert and curious in the mirror. So instead as most my age would do, I run, feet against the cold wooden floor swinging dramatically around the door frame and onto my mothers bed. Her bed feels safe, perfect from bedtime stories, and midnight songs after nightmares but now it is a trampoline the most effective way to wake her up. I instead discover she is not alone, the five year old body of my brother is curled up beside her peacefully asleep until moments ago.

 

It was 65 degrees in April 
Warm enough for bare arms, exposed shoulders. 
I wear heavy snow pants, and a tank top to defend against the heat. 
Goggles and helmet.
 I feel your longing stare against my back, burning holes into my skull. 
And as I turned to look at the perpetrator, 
Why I am not surprised to see You, gray hair, smug smile, a MAN who thinks he’s all that staring back at me. 
You returned my glance with a wink, and a smile that showed that you were well aware I had nowhere to run. 
I’ve heard the stories, they all end the same way 
Stay QUIET, head DOWN. 
They can smell fear, they feed on it like predators 
The kind of fear that quickens your breath, twists your stomach and tells you to run. 

My vision clouded, bindings click, tighten I hear you do the same 
You follow, lurking not far behind, waiting, watching.

 

In the midst of late winter, the sky seems endlessly gray, and the trees bend towards the ground as if to express that they too are tired of the cold. March continues to tease us with the promise of warm days, and blue skies leaving us with the disappointment that arises each day as the thermometer stays stubbornly stuck below thirty-two. The icicles that hang outside my window like stalactites, drip leisurely, a hopeful sign. Yet the snow that suffocates the land beneath, remains unchanged, unwilling to listen to the promises of spring made by the calendar. Outside, the world seems to be holding its breath, the silence so delicate like glass one feels compelled to whisper, and tiptoe as to preserve it. 

I could stoke the flames of hatred,
and dance among the fire.
Let the smoke cloud my vision, 
Let the great billowing clouds conceal me. 

I could dip my toes in the waters of jealousy,
and swim among the lilypads, 
Letting the envy turn me green,
And gaze upon myself, within the mirror for a while. 

I could dance in the forest.
And get high off the mountain air.
Letting myself forget, the shackles that I bear.

I'll sleep with the moss as my pillow,
The ground as my bed.
And fly far away,
on wings made of lies. 
 

The day I found out I might lose you,
I felt my heart stop, and my skin go cold like ice,
The invisible monster that lived inside of you laughed at me,
Enjoying, as it watched my heartbreak 
The days we spent together by the stove,
Chocolate smeared faces, and sticky hands,
Are now long gone.

Happy memories intertwined pangs of sadness,
That hurt more each time I see you fall, or the way you limp with your cane 
Exhaustion evident in your face, as you make your effort to be the person you used to be.

The nights I spent waiting by the phone, waiting to hear if everything was alright
The long minutes I spent waiting at my mother's door, listening to the muffled sobs,
Unsure if your time was running short.

Nights I spent awake and restless,
Knowing that I wasn't ready to say goodbye.