we're so close. 

I am wrapped in the touch of another 

suspended in a state of contentment

and soft safety. 

the lights in my room are warm

and in the mirror 

I see our reflections;

the stripes on my shirt

and the patterns on your socks 

this is us

bathed in an ethereal glow

in this moment I think of her

young and dazed 

dreaming of a life that was coated in a layer of romance 

like sugar on the rim of a cocktail glass. 

I let myself embrace her,

and all she was.

naive and hopeful 

and 

so 

            so

                          so 

full of love. 

a fairy tale is within reach now

even if it's for just one moment 

for her

I will dare to dive 

deep into the abyss of real love. 

He is heartless, they say.

But why did he give the little girl

A piece of his meager bread?

He is calculating, they say.

But why does he not take advantage 

Of the little girl when he easily can?

He is disloyal, they say.

But why did he stay by the little girl’s side

Even when he had more important things to do?

He is greedy, they say.

But why did he ask for nothing in return

After he helped the little girl so many times?

He is a monster, they say.

But why, then, does kindness show through his cracks?

Why did he pick the kite out of the tree for the little girl?

Why did he waste his medicine to help the deer?

Why did he lend his basket to the villagers,

But never asked for it back?

Stay away from him, they say.

But the little girl doesn’t.

and when the sun lingers on the snow

and the moon instates itself over the dark horizon;

when the trees reach, grasping; when the wind curls in on itself, pleading 

when a raging stream wears at stiff pavement 

the world asks-- “who am I?” 

and it pleads, though the world has never pled before

it lingers, as thunder rolls and and stone walls crumble

just to hear its own voice echoed back; 

for the world has only known its own existence 

and there is no answer to the question but the singularity of everything 

but it raises its voice anyway,

because there was no other thing to do

because even the world is not inevitable. 

Once upon a lonely time

The moon fell in love with the sun

And so you see they were lovers

Once when they were young

But then they grew apart, you see

though their love burned brighter on

They saw each other each dawn and dusk

One moment but never enough

When the sun pulled her cloak away

And the moon cast her veil on the day

Did their eyes meet yet grimly so

Filled with tired, practiced smiles

And so they played this terrible game

Of chase, and tag

Of cat and mouse

And of whispered I love yous

Until one day they saw their chance

And met in the sky for a kiss

And the world–

It called it an eclipse

I just want to do something significant.  I

want to write something that matters, something

that makes a change for the good, but

I also want to just be me: I want to dream

of wearing silk dresses with skirts perfect for twirling,

and I want to admire the stars without ever learning them.

I want to be a poet wearing rings and short hair, but

I also want hair flying in the wind, finally long enough

for the braid crown I've always wanted to have, and

I'm too scared to ever wear more than two rings at a time.

I want to streak pages with words that carry such weight, yet

I only ever am able to scrawl frivolous verses in messy cursive.

I want my poetry to be perfect rhymes and meter, but

I'm too much of a rambler, or maybe I'm just lazy with

a tendency of forgetting what my poem was supposed to be about,

trailing into whatever stream of glittering blue water I

find running before my eyes, across my screen.

I had a plan for what was going to come after this line, but

I have now forgotten any glimmer of organization.

I think this poem was supposed to be about trying to make a difference.

And I really hope I do one day, and

I really hope there is at least one person whose heart

I have helped to heal; I hope the wildflowers in my own

have scattered their seeds into your hope, and

grown into your own dreams.

there is a language, 

of clear skies and fluffy 

sheep-like clouds 

of tree-whispers 

and shooting stars. 

spoken  

in smile-lined faces 

and shining eyes,

in old, worn books

and ink-stained fingers.

it does not need an alphabet

nor any characters

for it is written 

in the wind, the stars

and the waves.

it is not a language

to be learned, but

to be remembered.

for asks nothing but

to be listened to.