06242015

it’s not the moment that belongs 

to me. moments do not belong. 

only the contents within belong. 

yes. even as the moments fall 

away, what is held within them 

clings… and often remains…

floating in the ether of the

present, fighting for an instant

of respectful acknowledgment

that it, too, wishes to witness

the rising of the sun, raging and

purposeful and new, over the

blazing and acquiescent horizon

that waits with ardent consciousness.

06212015

in celebration of imperfection...

06182015

amidst the monumental fullness of life,

emptiness is a necessity.

she enters me, deeply.

we sit on the rim of communion,

emptiness and i.

she steals my voice,

gifting me with silence.

and when we part, i leave

fragments of me—softened by

the lushness of redemption—behind.

what quickening of the spirit we share!

nothing else will appease my hunger.

06142015

another unsent letter…

Dear R.,

I know nothing about you. Nothing… except that you are alone. 

I am confused about your aloneness. Your door is always slightly ajar… like an invitation. An invitation that no one dares to heed. Do you keep your door that way with a purpose in mind? Or is that an unconscious cry for connection on your part? Do you know the answers to any of these questions? I don’t. I only know one thing with all certainty. You bewitch me.

My thoughts of you are sugarcoated with curiosity and fascination. Yet, I dare not approach that door. Every time I try, I feel as though I am about to invade a holy shrine. The air is thick and heavy around it, and I am held outside as if by invisible hands. Outside. At the perimeter of that door. At the perimeter of you. And I am beholden to the single framed photograph of a little girl that sits on your desk. 

The girl is no older than eight. She is dressed in a lemon yellow Hello Kitty dress and matching flipflops. She is standing on a beach and waving at the camera, proudly displaying her jack-o-lantern smile while the waves crash around her. Her straight black hair is spread around her face like a fan. Who is she? 

I want to walk closer to the photo and capture the full details. I want to. I won’t. Mine is an ambiguous curiosity tinted with the shame of knowing I am not entitled. I will guard my secret like a relic.

But… tell me, now...

Do you feel the probe of my enquiring gaze? 

Does my interest unnerve you? 

Are you undone by it all?

Do you ever wonder what I want from you?

Do not ask the question.

I will not tell.

Fondly,

N.

06132015

saturday.

the sky calls.

the clouds congregate.

the morning bites its thumb at me.

i smile inwardly and bite my thumb back.

there is no need for this false show of assertiveness.

the air smells of oxygen and grass.

my lips are dry with longing.

i am a flower...

ducking the hollowness of the past,

feeding on the grandeur of the future,

traveling within the briefness of now,

my ears crammed with stories,

my spirit trimmed with light.