I Rose with Her Breath

I rested, my body dangling

Entangled in chains.

Twisted I swayed

As stormy nights shook the walls

Rocking the world

From side to side.


Empty of even

the smallest remembrance, I was

Unused. Rarely worn, dust collected

In the roses engraved,

Spiraling up

And around my body.


Returned to the earth

Was she, and since,

No purpose have I.

I rose and fell with her every breath

And felt the pulse of her heart

Quicken and soften.


With her I rested

Between her full,

Pale breasts. Closer

Than any

Man

Could reach.


Her creamy skin

Was richer

Than the froth

Of milk,

So fresh

It was still warm.


She spoke with a faint lilt

From round ruby lips,

And smiled from eyes

That glistened

A dark,

Midnight blue.


Robust as the scent of the earth

was the Spanish lavender

That seemed as if to come from her

And float in the air around her.

An indescribable smell,

Too dark and thick to call sweet.


On bright

Summer days,

Light gleamed off of my soft gold

Until came the frost

And I grew cold, prickling

Her skin.


There I stayed,

‘Til I no longer rose

or fell

With her breath

And warmth escaped her

Body.


Her pearly white

Skin turned gray.

I was stripped from her

Never to be worn

By as gentle and fair a woman

Again.


Never to hear

Her voice

As thick and smooth as honey

Or to feel the song of her heart

Again.


Never to dance and sway

As she moved with the

Effortless grace

Of a summer wind

Or rest in her warmth

Again.

Abstract

“Question.” he said as he walked into the kitchen and placed his book on the counter beside me.

“Answer, hopefully.” I smiled and turned away from my laptop screen. My brother leaned against the counter.

“What color am I?”

“What?” I laughed.

“You said you associate some people with colors and weird stuff like that. So, what am I?”

“An idiot.”

I only made one New Year’s resolution – to do anything and everything that makes me happy, to pursue all things beautiful relentlessly, and to never stop learning and growing. (Okay, so maybe that’s three…)

Happy 2017! I hope this new year brings into your life whatever has been missing.

I love you all!

capture-decran-2016-12-17-a-14-38-55

Strangers’ Faces

There’s something beautiful about living in a growing city. The mystery that it is to walk alongside strangers, passing them as you continue on your way – becoming a part of their life for a brief moment. Strangers to you, yet the loved ones of others. Strangers, each with their own story; a story that wishes to be shared with the world. Strangers, each with unique and complicated lives – beautiful lives – that you get to be a part of if even just for a passing second. There is something beautiful about all of these people, these breathing souls that we have labeled as strangers.

Wood Floors

When I was little I liked to sit on floors. Especially during the summer, when the sunlight would beam through our windows and leave spots on our hardwood floors. I liked to sit in those spots. I liked to run my hands along the warmed wood and try to lay so my whole body was covered in the sunlight. I liked to trace the edges of the spot with my fingers. I still like doing that.

Lost a Friend

Missing

I lost a good friend of mine. I met her at a summer camp almost five years ago now. She’s been gone for months. She seems to have just disappeared. I haven’t heard from her or seen her, and for all I know, she could be gone for good. 

I will never forget her, though. I will never forget the small sobbing girl I found after stumbling out of my bunk late one night, and how she later became one of my closest and dearest friends.

She was curled in the corner of the bathroom. Her hands were pressed up against her dripping face and her knees were tucked close to her chest. Stepping into the bathroom, I closed the door behind me. I sat down beside her on the floor without a word. She peeked her hands away from her eyes for only a minute to look at me and then wrapped her arms around my neck. Her hot, damp face was pressed up against mine, her small was body shaking. She clung tightly to me, and I could feel her shudder with every breath she took. I smoothed her hair down and rubbed her back and waited for her sobs to lessen. Both clad in our pajamas and sitting huddled together on the cold floor of the bathroom, we fell asleep. 

I wish I was able to say something incredibly inspiring. Something..anything.

So many people feel lost and terrified. I wish there was something I could say to make them feel better. I wish words could convey a smile. I wish I was better able to convey my love for people through writing, but I feel as though my intentions get buried beneath my stiff sentences. I wish you could feel the love I have for you when you read this. I wish you knew that I am always cheering you on and I am proud of the person you are.

Stuck

The little time I have to spend writing is eaten up by everyday stress. Every time I sit down to write I get stuck. I haven’t written anything in months.

I am staring at a bright screen and running my mind in circles, asking myself what I could possibly contribute that hasn’t already been said. Do I even have anything to say worth reading?

It’s two o’clock in the afternoon,  and I am sitting on my bed procrastinating. I know that no matter how hard I work, I won’t be able to finish all  of my homework as well as I’d like to in the little time that I have. So instead, I am sitting on my bed and staring at my laptop screen, racking my brain for any sort of idea.

Nothing so far.

 

What I have learned about myself

 

~ I am terrified of the future and the uncertainty of my life

~ It is easier for me to trust a complete stranger than it is for me to trust myself

~ I never really had a favorite color

~ Although a majority of people say that the more they learn about our humanity the less faith they have in it, I find the more I am able to learn the more I grow to love myself and the people and complex world around me.

~ I love peppermint tea

~ My biggest life goal is to be the best version of myself and to inspire people to do the same.

~ I am scared that I will never be able to find something that I truly believe in.

~ I am easily overwhelmed

~ I don’t trust myself to make decisions

~ I constantly feel the need to seek validation through other people.

~ Shakespeare makes no sense to me, and I wish it did. I have tried so hard! I want to understand it, but the words just swim in my head and lose any and all meaning.

~ I fear that I am my biggest threat.

~ I have synesthesia

~ I struggle to understand people. I struggle to understand emotions, whether they are my own or some one else’s.

~ I learn best through talking and writing. To sort out my thoughts, I need to say them outloud.

~ I procrastinate

~ I hate being told what to do. Authority has always brought out my worst inner child, and I always have to bite my tongue.

~ Irish fold music makes me happy. I really don’t know why.

 

 

 

 

Things I Loved as a Child

Water dripping from a gutter; puddles in the street; window panes; squeaky old wheels; the ocean; sleeping bags; cold wind that chapped my face; the stillness of museums when they first open in the mornings; apples; thick books; globes; the color of the sky after rain; the flickering glow of candles; embroidery hoops; Nancy Drew books; dusty chalkboards; the beam of light through a window; places that echo; wooden crates; tree stumps; fish tanks; bookshelves; ribbons; the Lawrence Welk show; the quilt my Oma made me; and my Opa’s soft voice when he used to read to me.

Sunday Evenings

“I’m so tired,” I said, staring up at the ceiling.

“Me too.” he sighed. We laid sprawled out on his living room floor, our homework in disarray around us.

His house always smelled of ginger and old books and peppermint. We always did our homework together in his living room Sunday evenings. Ever since we were little, when my mom used to drop me off and we’d sit on the carpeted floor with our books. When finished our homework, we would help him mom cook dinner in the kitchen. We were usually more of a mess for her to clean up than any help.

“You know what makes me happy?”

“What?” he asked, turning over onto his stomach to look at me.

“Irish folk music.” I giggled and put a hand over my face. Isaiah started at me with his dark brown eyes, confused for a second until is lips parted and a heartfelt laugh escaped them. He rested his cheek on the floor and smiled.

“You are such a dork.” he said. “especially when you’re this tired.”

“I know!” I laughed.

I was this funny little girl. I was dorky and clumsy yet headstrong and stubborn. Then that person went away. She sort of gave into the pain of others and let it take her. She left a memory of a person behind. This beautiful unique memory. The memory fades a little every year, but she’s still there. That little memory is still there and lives every day. I liver every day. I breathe, I eat, I sleep. I am still here, just a little dimmer. When I get tired, I thnk about her, this little vibrant healthy thing. Sometimes if I really listen I can still hear her, too. I think of her often. It’s funny when all it does is make ms ache But i do not want to forget who I was so, so I think of her every day.

Everybody has their low days. It’s a part of this wonderfully confusing life. Her low days were so bright. It was beautiful.

She could never come back, though. Even if I wanted her back. She is too beautiful to be in this place. But I will never forget her. She is unforgettable. She lives in cold summer days that pinch your face. She lives in those beautiful melodies that give people hope. She lives in the purest of laughter. She was the beauty in everything broken.

When she left there was this empty space where her light used to rest. There wasn’t any peace within our restless thoughts. I didn’t know how to fill it without her.

 

Beautiful Girls

They laid on the carpet of her bedroom floor, bundled in hand-made quilts. Their soft whispers turned to loud bursts of laughter every once in awhile, unsettling the calm of the house. They gazed up at the ceiling, their hands and hair intertwined. Time seemed to slow as they poured out all of their troubles and worries and their biggest secrets. Nothing else mattered. When one would talk the other would listen, softly stroking back the curls on her forehead. Their voices got quieter and quieter, till their worries were gone and sleep washed over them.

The Most Beautiful Words I’ve Ever Heard

B (If I Should Have a Daughter)  by Sarah Kay 

 

Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.”

She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.

And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.”

But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it.

I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind. Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this, “There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.

You will put the “wind” in winsome, lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.

And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.

“Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.”

Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.

Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

 

Rain in August

It was pouring all day. Everything was inky gray, as if water colors had spilled all across the clouds. Even though it was August there wasn’t a patch of sunlight peaking through the thick damp sky. Clear, cold water an inch deep ran down the sides of the road. My feet were soaked as well as my hair. Every inch of my skin was cold and wet. It was wonderful.

 

 

Sonder

I find a comforting beauty in the bustle of a city. Immersing myself in the pulse of the streets, I become a brief portion of a stranger’s day. I like to gaze through the windows of coffee shops and watch the quiet movements of the people sitting behind them, inventing my own scheme of what their lives must be like. A small young woman, an aspiring artist, sits in the corner. Her gaze is lost somewhere only she can see.

My own thoughts trail. I imagine what these streets must have looked like fifty years ago – if they were as busy and filled with life. I wonder what must have occupied these old buildings before they were refilled with new people and new things and what they must have been like brand new. There was a time where people came here and saw their future.

I

I sat with my bare legs over the edge, my ankles submerged in the water. The dock swayed with the soft waves that rippled from the boats far out on the lake. The old boards creaked with every rock of the waves. I let the wind pull at my hair as my thoughts trailed, my eyes staring blankly into the distance. I could hear her soft breathing behind me, rising and falling. I let out a sigh. The sun had slid down behind the tops of the trees, only a curved orange glow peeking above the edges. The warm glow melted through parts of the sky, turning the once pale blue into inky patches of pink and gray.

“Do you ever feel like dying?”  she asked. There was something off in her voice. Her tone was cold. I turned to look down at her face as she laid on the dock. Her hazel hair was swept off to the side, her dark green eyes stared up at me. She was waiting for me to react.

I looked back out over the water. It was mellowing, the waves turning into small ridges and disappearing before they neared the shore.

She poked my side with her small finger.  “Answer me.”

“When I was seven I had scarlet fever. Then I felt like dying.”  She smirked. She enjoyed it when I tried to avoid her questions. She sat up and joined my gaze on the water.

“If I was to do it” she started, “I would jump.”

“I would sit on the ledge of a beautiful bridge overlooking a river. It would be early morning,”  she paused.  Her voice was soft, as if she was telling a fairy tail. “I’d watch as the sun would spill over the horizon.  Then, I’d push off the ledge,” her hands gestured like she was about to push off the dock and her lips parted in a smile. “The skirt of my dress would ripple and pull in the wind as I plummeted, exposing my legs.  Then I would hit the water and my body would slowly sink. The fabric of my skirt would be the last to follow me to the depths, billowing and floating above as I dipped further away from the surface.”

Her words fell out of her mouth without any effort, like she had thought about this for a long time – like a story she had told over and over again.

Her voice fell silent. I could feel her eyes searching my face, waiting for me to respond.

“It would be romantic.”  She sighed.

 

I lived with my grandfather for two years in Lyon, France.  We lived along the river Rhône in a small apartment on the fourth story of a quaint building.  I shared my small bedroom with my grandfather’s dog – Cherché.  I gave him that absurd nickname when I was only four years old, and it stuck.  From my bedroom window, I had a perfect view of the river. The apartment was always cold, and it always smelled like coffee and his tobacco.  It was my home for two years, and I have only fond memories of the place.

 

Lilacs

She awoke with a start.  Her window was open, the curtains billowing. Light flashed as they waved, leaving strips along the walls.  She pulled the sheets off of her body and slipped out of bed.  Shrugging on her sweater, she left her bedroom.  She stumbled down the narrow dark hallway.  Reaching the door, she cracked it open and peered in.  Lise was turned away from the door on her side, the sheets loosely draped over her bare back.  She opened the door and walked in, stepping quietly over the wood floors.  Lifting the sheet she slipped in beside Lise, pressing up against her.  She took a deep breath, breathing in the smell of Lise’s hair – lilacs.  She laid her head against her shoulder and fell asleep.

Bedtime

Disparu

The room was bare of all personal effects.  It was dark and empty, all but some boxes packed in the corner, and a girl.  She kneeled on the dusty floor by the boxes.  She ran her hands over them – Samantha’s old things – all packaged and tucked away.  She opened the first box and rummaged through the stacks and stacks of notes, scribbles of ideas.  A smaller rectangular box sat at the bottom.  She pulled it out and opened it.  The top came off and pens spilled out onto the floor.  Her favorite pens, some barely ever touched, because every time she had a new idea, she got a new pen.  Looking back in the box she noticed a piece of paper had slipped between the folds of the cardboard.  She pulled it out. The paper was old and wrinkled, the words faded and hardly legible.  She read what she could make out.

before I die

I want to watch the sunset from Santorini, Greece,

swim in Devil’s Pool in Africa,

go Hiking in Iceland,

backpack through Europe,

see the Aurora Borealis with my own eyes,

spend a night under the stars, 

go lavender picking, 

write a book,

go to Africa, 

dance in the rain – because that sounds cool,

go to Finland, 

let go of a floating lantern in Thailand,

see a broadway musical,

ride a gondola in Venice,

make a call from a London phone booth,

drink coffee in a Parisian cafe,

visit Stonehenge, 

throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain in Italy,

finish reading a book in one sitting,

see the Fairy Pools in Scotland,

walk behind a waterfall,

soak in hot springs in Iceland,

and bike through the city streets of Amsterdam

 

Je ne sais pas pourquoi, le troisième

Je ne sais pas pourquoi, mais j’adore…

I do not know why, but I love..

Black and white prints; old hard covered novels; strawberries; clawfoot bathtubs; nicknames; rope bridges; brown paper bags; freckles; large Russian carpets; ripples; baby’s breath flowers; windows; ballet; the word “ribbons”; oil paintings; teacups; kaleidoscopes; watercolors; pianos; sand dunes; the sound of a train; the sound a typewriter makes; crates of fruit; jars; and so much more.

 

Bisou

She pressed her forehead up against my arm.  She twirled a twig between her fingers, rolling it back and forth.  She hummed a soft lullaby while we laid there.  The blanket underneath, separating us from the dirt, smelled of chamomile and ginger.  The sun trickled through the dense branches above us.  The tree’s tall mass stole the warmth of the light.  A cold breeze blew past and right up my skirt, exposing my bare legs.  She sat up and rested her hand on my thigh, smiling at my prickled skin.

“Cold?”  she asked.  I shook my head.  She laughed.  “here” she said, untying the scarf from around her neck and wrapping it around mine, tying it loosely.  She planted a kiss below  my collar bone with a smile.  Her lips were warm and soft.  She pulled away and laid back down on the blanket.

“What was that for?”  I asked.

“Just felt good” she laughed.

 

Misplaced

 

éphémère

“It is easier to hold onto pain than to joy.  Our pain marks us, leaving behind a trail of sorrows.  Joy disappears under the grief, masked by a thick curtain of despair.  Even the beautiful memories are tinted with melancholy.  A distress fills our hearts as we long for those memories past, questioning if such a feeling with ever be relived.  

But of no fear, for time is near, that all will be forgotten.”

~ an excerpt from Gone to Paris

Fleeting