Telling me stories I was already told by your lying mouth that used to kiss me. Sweet taste of sugar powder sugar, light like the dust laying on old pictures like old and dusty is the feeling I had for you
The frozen tundra that is now Queens has caused her to have quicksanded into a corner in Corona. The blizzard leaving remains of a frigid statue waiting to be blown away. The numbing started with the first frost, entering through the hole of a navy sneaker, with minute crystalline pricking up the arms. A glittering icicle nipping and pirahnaing through the neck without reproach. No alms, charity or relief on New Year’s Eve. Just a foul storefront which would double as a mirro
You are as a church where I can find myself and have a spark of hope. Where all the complicate become quite as it never existed, forgetting my regrets but essentially a hope that become loud as the church bells ring bing bing everyone heard it but no one can understand it as you do.
When it feels like this, talking to him is raccooning after the scraps. Scouring for something to say to you so the ecosystem we have built of gnawed bones, apple cores, and littered wrappers like one word answers carries on tonight. When it feels like this, like scavenging animals searching for substance in the dimly lit streets - even as it screams rotten on the tongue - it makes her question when she started to pretend she couldn’t taste the difference.
Simultaneously, The sun beams As roots rip there way up through dirt, Neck and neck with grass that has long matured before. A tip of a sprout peaks into visibility after weeks of nothing. She grew in plain sight without a twinge of hope The farmer’s forehead can finally uncrease, One less to worry about he thinks as he tips his amber hat. The seedling enjoys the cold mist and dew which fall to its cheek, It coddles her like a blanket of support as the shadow grows Untimely f
I tiptoed into the dimly lit room that smelled of baby powder and bedtime body lotion. Don’t wake the baby. My parents warned me, my brother warned me and their words rang in my ears as I secretly strolled across the carpeted floor. I didn’t care. I had to meet her. I knelt next to the crib taking her tiny hand in mine staring at her as her eyes fluttered open not making a sound. Joy and adoration filled my seven-year-old heart. I kissed that tiny hand and I became an aunt.
The morning was bright and warm. Not a cloud in the sky, just a blue endless expanse like an ocean above me. There could be no better day than this. I could barely contain myself, struggling to keep close to the speed limit, for today was a red letter day. This day I will submit the thesis for my masters, one last step and all 33 years of my life would finally amount to something. A vindication that I have long awaited, it was—the pain was so sudden. My arm felt so weak. My v
Now and then, when I drive past the same stop sign, I think of late night walks and laughter when the walls have started closing in. We kicked around through the leaves, the way children do, wishing the burden that you carried that night could crumble and carry off under our feet. We were too young to not feel young. Sometimes, Adore plays and it’s your hand in mine, like it was the only thing that tethered either of us to the pavement. The sky was wary of the constellations
You are like an empty playground tagged in black spray paint covering its once vibrant colors. Pooling water rests upon slides, where voices echoed in laughter, now home to vandals forgetting their purpose.