you are a nightmare and a good dream all rolled into one weave. im not sure how i will wake up from this, startled awake, falling from high places, or wishing i was still asleep.
run.
usain bolt would be jealous of how quickly you ran away from this, but what you don't know is that this is a lap, and not a straight line and i will be here to love you whether you are at finish or start.
narratives.
i ask myself, over and over am i the idiot here? am i a fool for ignoring your attempts to shove me away? am i romanticizing something never meant to be romanticized? is this a real, true story? or is this a narrative that i have created? i don't know what the answer is.
learn.
teach me how to love you. let me learn the ways that you drown in tenderness. is it a caress, deep in the night? is it silence, and thought? is it time? or offerings? tell me, beautiful soul, how can i love you so that you never forget.
wait.
i have been in the place that you are,
where the world seems upside down,
and the ache in your chest seems unending.
you are not something to be fixed,
but you are someone to be loved.
all the pieces of you, the hurt ones
and the ones that are strong and beautiful
and the ones that you are still figuring out.
someone else’s pain should never be
used as ammunition —
you are safe with me.
i am going to love you, relentlessly.
and if you decide that you can’t be loved
in this way, then so be it,
but i will not love you less because you are afraid.
eight.
if you get tired of running, come lay with me. let me love you until you don't remember what this pain was.
ocean.
you are a wave, crashing over me suffocating me, sucking me out to sea, only to spit me back on the sand. you draw me in, invite me to drown in you, dying would be so beautiful, but then you say not yet. legs raw from the sand, eyes red from the salt, take me out to sea, or let me crawl away from this madness. as long as my feet are in the water, i belong to you.
notitle.
it is the strangest thing
this desire to love you,
to unzip your skin
and crawl into your soul with you,
to want to know every inch of you,
to cause you pleasure.
i want to love you so deeply,
that you can never escape
the feeling of being cared for.
that even in the darkest places,
there is a light reaching out to you.
s.
you are the sun warming my face while i sit precariously on the edge of some far away tall place. and you are the smell of rain in summer musky and sweet and calm. you are a house - built with strong bones and a kitchen that smells inevitably like coffee and warmth. you are blue and green and gray like the sea. soothing and beautiful, filled with mystery, still. you are laughter and safety, a joke poised on pursed lips and light so bright the sun is only a dark smudge. you are are music and dancing spinning in time with mother earth; melodies that i hope i hear forever.
books.
people are books.
some leave you gasping in your seat,
teary eyed, broken up about it.
folded pages, dusty left behinds
in bins we shove in the attic,
ship away to the goodwill
somewhere after saturday morning coffee
they are ripped pages burned to ash
framed, cut into shapes by someone
who thought it was a good idea,
even though it’s just a cliche on a bookshelf.
teach you things, tell you things.
blank pages, fresh paper
reminders of better times, good times,
bad times, lost times, future times.
people are books.
they smell like hope and calm
and sometimes they are soggy and burnt
with ruin from something no fault of their own.
they have coffee stains, and food prints
and sometimes they fall apart
when you pick them up
because they have lived a life
that was never meant for something so fragile
people are books,
they are beautiful bound leather
and tattered paperbacks loved
a little too much,
lifetimes, lifetimes
of fierce love and hope and lessons.
people are books.
