Today it snowed for the first time this winter. We had classes but you woke up early, so of course I did too. 

"Let's skip today," you said. "This day is too special to waste on classes." 

I protested. I had no work that was more important than normal, but I did not want to make it up later. I did not want to be caught skipping. I did not consider classes a waste of time. But then I saw you bobbing by the window, eyes sparkling, jaw agape, watching the flakes as if you had never seen snow before. 

I canceled my classes, called in sick. I put on my jacket and warm hat and followed you into the snow. 

You insisted on putting the first footprint in the snow. Then you ran about, dragging me to a field where the lovely white blanket was laid out before me. "Dance," you told me. "That field needs footprints." 

It almost broke my heart to touch the snow. You nudged me, with your body, or your laughing eyes, I do not remember. At first skeptically, I moved, but then faster, and faster, and you dancing beside me.

Snow is so soft, yet it is made of rock. Every time I remember snowflakes are small crystals of ice, water in its solid state, I am knocked over again by this ridiculous world. In a way it is like sand. I tell you this as you flop back to make a snow angel. You smile as if I have given you the sun. 

The snow is so white. Light reflects over and over though the imperfect edges of the ice. I think about purity, how often our ideas of it cause shame. Of impurity meaning filthy. Of the impurity of the ice crystals that allow the snow to almost glow, even after sunset, collecting the rays of a disappearing star and illuminating your laughing face. Of the field of snow, not broken, but alive with our footfalls and laughter. Of you.

There are so many people who would call you impure. Who would wish you to be ashamed. You swear like a sailor, take great joy in sex, take up so much space, indeed all the space of my world, without even seeming to know it. You have never followed anything you could not see the evidence for. Yet, as you dance through the falling rocks, trying to catch them on your tongue, the wonder in your eyes has an intensity so pure I would fall at your feet in worship, of it, of you, of the world's light you are reflecting back into my eyes. 

at dusk

sun setting on an april day in paris 

I messaged you 

as if I was sending letters

by carrier pigeon 

to an enemy fort 

hidden in the alps 

you replied to me

from somewhere 

north of milan 

you lie wrapped in a robe 

drinking espresso 

even though it was much too late for caffeine 

staying awake 

to answer every question my weary heart asked of you

I told you what my young heart wanted out of love

in words that spelled out the lyrics 

to the song of my soul 

and you told me your dreams

of bringing me deep into the hills of tuscany 

and walking for hours 

in the milky moonlight 

as I fell asleep that night 

I didn't dream

but I know 

you were the last thought that entered my mind

I was so blind 

to the love you wanted to give me

so oblivious 

to the depths of my heart

She has just showered, and her hair hangs limp down her back, washed of the shampoo she waited five minutes, forehead against the cool tile wall, to rinse off. The sky is ink and charcoal, but then, it has been for hours. She looks at the wide yellow dish of a moon hanging low outside her curtainless windows and wishes she could see the snow that is hidden by the night. She doesn't want to sleep, but fatigue hangs heavy in her forehead. Her small bed beckons her. 

She can no longer fall asleep to silence. She needs a podcast, a smooth voice to drown out her thoughts. Not that her thoughts are so bad; they just won't do at this hour. She wants to wake up somewhere nice. Italy. France. She wants to wake up with someone's arm around her. She also doesn't, because the idea of it seems odd. She is too much of a romantic, she thinks. She knows nothing of the world. She needs to straighten herself out.

She wonders what will gather and hum around her as she sleeps. The voice in the podcast, all the thoughts she could have but won't because sleep will have stuffed cotton into her ears. Her dreams, which she'll wake up and forget to write down, save the best ones to tell friends in the hallway. The dreams of everyone who sometimes thinks of her. 

Tomorrow, when she steps outside and sees her breath, she will wonder why the pink morning sky comes at such a price. At least, she thinks, she is not cold right now, as she lies under her blankets in a house where the heat is always on too high. Tomorrow her face will turn to frost again, until she steps into school and a friend tries to warm her hands. 

This world we carry on our backs gets heavy sometimes 

our arms ache as we stare at the path ahead, 

a path we can't see an end to

pieces fall off and we wonder if they were important

as we try our hardest to not drop what we love most,

if we even know what that is anymore

because the perfectly separated layers of the world get shaken up sometimes

like a snow globe

we get lost in the sharp pieces of something that should be whole

the edges cut our skin and blood, diluted by tears, pools at our feet

we are looking for that little bit of warmth we pray is still alive

looking for a doctor to fix what is broken

but are we even broken? 

Because this world can be hard to understand sometimes

Like, really hard

like a crystal ball we don't know how to read

we get stuck in the quicksand trying to follow a trail left by bread crumbs

then we fall, fall into something we don't know how to explain

disoriented, confused, lost

This life is hard sometimes

In my heart is a girl who

Waltzes to the beat

Of the thrum, who

Surrounds herself with millions

Of fairly lights that

Twinkle with the stars, and

Each bear a story she

Cups her palms around and

Whispers her magic upon until

It sprouts wings and

Waltzes along with her;

She beams at her own successes, but

Even more at her friends’, and

Her whole heart, the size

Of my thumbnail adorned

With chipped nail polish,

Glimmers golden as

She hugs them and promises verses

Of hand-written poetry;

How I wish I was this girl,

Spinning breathlessly across a lake

Settled into the valleys of my heart, hair

Shining in the gentle light

Of the moon; How

I wish I was this graceful and

Grateful and beautiful, and

How I wish I could fall head-first

Into this page, this

Poem;

I think this girl in my heart,

Though, is

Actually in the heart my head

Wishes I have, but

Isn’t the girl waltzing,

Spinning, dancing

Through the millions of fairy lights

She’s surrounded herself by, which

Have multiplied with every one

Of her dreams,

Still

A part of me?

I speak, you speak.

Together we share the emotions we’re feeling.

Giving and taking that wonderful thing called Empathy.

Together.

We speak our minds, cry together.

Share our fears, our thoughts, our feelings.

And we help each other.

We give a listening ear.

We talk, then we listen, each in turn.

Our friendship is full of heartfelt conversations.

Speaking together, listening together.

Giving and taking that empathy we both need.

Feeling heard.

Feeling like we matter.

That’s the true power of Empathy.

at first

you were the loud boy on the bus 

with a red lunchbox 

full of day old spaghetti in a dented thermos

and parmesan your dad brought back from italy 

you were the boy that made me laugh 

even when I didn't want to

you then became my friend

my polar opposite 

my partner in crime 

getting me in trouble 

and I didn't even mind 

we drew comics and cartoons 

with expensive pens and markers 

making characters that said 

what we were too scared to say 

and we would walk loops around my house

in the blue dark talking 

about things that made us wise beyond our years 

then one day 

behind the leaning pine tree 

in my overgrown backyard 

you told me that you liked me 

and asked if I felt the same

and suddenly I froze 

elementary mind turning to stone

running from fate I didn't understand 

it's been years since that november day 

and I like to think I've grown 

but you still make me nervous 

in a good way

whenever we're alone

there is something in your eyes 

and maybe in your smile 

that I've always liked to hide from

but I think it might be time

Misting

slowly, a dusting of pearly droplets

coats the world.

each one lands separately,

but over time, they all combine.

joining forces

melting together

to overtake the earth.

We humans-

sitting at home

bored at work 

walking in the "rain"-

we don't even notice 

their mighty effort

to band together

and make a difference

and so we sit,

oblivious to them

and oblivious to what

or who

might be oblivious to us.

Is it really?

Is writing just a waste of my time, 

and a waste of time for others to read?

Is writing this here now, 

is it really useless?

According to some people it is.

But how can they say that?

How on Earth can people say that

when writing is its very foundation?

Honestly,

I feel bad for them,

not knowing the joys

of writing a masterpiece.

And not knowing the joys

of winning a contest.

Or maybe

just the feeling of letting go 

and thinking

of nothing but your writing.

Maybe that's just me though,

and it is  really useless.

Maybe it is useless,

and it's just me

who pours their heart out 

to strangers online, 

because I know that they'll respond

kindly, and they'll be supportive.

Maybe it is useless.

And I'm just not seeing it's uselessness.

But even if it is,

I'm still going to spend all of my time

doing something useless,

because it's my favorite thing.

And I don't think that'll ever change.

Even if it is useless.

It all started with the big bang — the mighty "thwack"-ing noise that connected my body to the prickly embrace of the wood chips below. My descent from the jungle gym was far from graceful, solo mission "rescue Mr. Beanie Boo" undone by gravity's merciless pull.

Dazed and seeing stars, I lay on my back and listened to the noise of other kids orbiting the playground. 

It was then, that suddenly, faster than a shooting star, she appeared — clutching my Beanie Boo in her arms like a cosmic offering. 

It was then I knew my universe had expanded for good.