intricacy

do you remember the first time you were called annoying? how your breath stopped short in your chest the way the light drained from your eyes, though you knew your cheeks were ablaze the way your throat tightened as you tried to form an argument that got lost on your tongue. your eyes never left the floor that day. you were 13. you’re 20 now, and i still see the light fade from your eyes when you talk about your interests for “too long,” apologies littering every other sentence, words trailing off a cliff you haven’t jumped from in 7 years. i could listen to you forever, though i know speaking for more than 3 uninterrupted minutes makes you anxious. all i want you to know is that you deserve to be heard for 3 minutes for 10 minutes for 2 hours forever. there will be people who cannot handle your grace, your beauty, your wisdom, your heart; mostly because they can’t handle their own. but you will never be and have never been “too much.”

I often find myself thinking about how the stars resemble your skin when the night is clear. I lose my breath to the wind and wait for it to return to me While blades of grass tickle my feet, And I wonder how long it’s been since you did the same. How long? How long has it been since you chose dancing with comets and sleeping in nebulas over spending another night in this self-destructive world? I can’t say I blame you. I speak volumes to your tombstone in hopes that you can hear me, But I know that every psalm and sonnet and soliloquy I preach to you is just a plea to the void. There’s a theory that says organs are conscious and contain memories while they’re alive; I can’t help but wonder if memories of us are leaking out of yours now. I’ve been trying to feel your soul again in every way possible, But the only place I find a real glimpse of you is in myself. So I’ve been searching places that should represent you— The park, The library, Your school, Your work, Your house— Your house has become a black hole that I’m drawn to only to be crushed by your absence. And before I know it I’m in your room again, Convincing your mother not to pack up your things just yet while I soak in your bed sheets, Trying to take in any physical remnants of you that may be left, even if it is just a faint scent. But no man-made environment will ever be comparable to you; There’s no way a place would be able to fully embody your essence. So I seek you in the ethereal things that they say were created by some Holy One— The stars for your freckles, A breeze for your breath, The grass for your hands, The moon for your eyes, The sun for your smile, The ocean for your passion, And the forests for your spirit. The only comfort I can find is in foolishly pretending that you are all around me in these celestial bodies; Always present, Always listening, Always watching. I kept hoping that the universe was smaller than we believed, So maybe you’d reach the edge and bounce back to return to me some day. But I’ve realized since then that if you could prevent it in any way you would never return here. Despite this, I will continue searching for you in case you change your mind, But I won’t expect anything anymore. And for now, I’ll keep any pieces of you that I find in my pockets and stitch them together when I long for you— Maybe one day I’ll have sewn a quilt that’s large enough to cover the holes your departure has left me

The Silence of the Heavens

I learned to love in the cells of house parties and bathroom stalls. I studied feverously, tracing the lost words of affection down your lips and across your body, drugging myself on your addiction. Every night you lectured me on the rights and wrongs of commitment over bottles of forgetting who we were, to become what we needed to be. I learned that loving is as simple as hearing your voice, and as complicated as trying to forget it. Love is a two-sided coin, used to pawn off any scraps of hope you can find, hope that one day the nights will get easier; and nights have grown so hard. So take mine, darling. Accept my love and let me be free.

As I woke on a midnight prairie Full white moon dark and dreary

your mouth was full of flowers you spoke dreams into my eyes i suspect, i was born to believe you my heart never tasted the lies and your skin was that meadow that i laid upon in summer indolent children, as the grass grew high around us we stared up as the world spun golden days in wonder the curved edges of your fingers just brushing mine with the secret patterns of your palms the way your knee bounced beneath the table your blues slipping further away, often times i’d find you, standing at the track your hands shoved deep in your pockets, we watched the heavy train slip around the curve to no man's land you’d swear you’d never go back, to where it started and that ash in that moment i could taste it my heart awoken to all those seconds i had wasted asleep beneath the tree and never having heard that voice that world above calling like a bird upon a branch down to me but then i breathed just as you turned those irises towards mine i knew i’d found you then, i’d seen you the girl beneath the lie but still you cupped your hands to me, as if hoping i had not seen the curl of your eyelash that said to me, trust me violet, despite the emptiness between my ribs and that desperation, that false start, that urgency i could see spelled out from your heart it seems to me so sad a thing, so sad for you to fall beneath the heavy sheet of rain like a youth under thrall or that poor little birch i had thought to save, the one whose wood now shelters a knave- oh, my summer girl what fools we have been you and i. beneath these city lights and under this smoggy sky. here take a moment and then let us say goodbye

Sometimes the best explanations of the world leave us dissatisfied

A toast

I don’t think love is just felt. It’s lived. The love that everyone uses, it’s kind of just a surface emotion. Yes, you can love someone for how they treat you, how you connect, you can love a movie or anything. what’s not as commonly shown is actual, deep love. It doesn’t even have to be in a romantic way. Love isn’t wanting to spend the rest of your life with a person. It can cause you to want to, but that isn’t love. Love is accepting the darkness of a person. The rage, the hurt, the loneliness. The light. the happiness, the passion. I think it’s understanding a person. Loving them regardless of whether or not they care back. it’s not something that is required to be returned. If someone says “I love you” and gets mad when they don’t get a returned response, that’s not love. Love is hurt, love is joy, it’s acceptance for every side, good and bad. truly caring and listening, and wanting to help. It doesn’t have to be returned, you just have to give it with what you can. you have to love fiercely. The surface love may feel good, but it seems to only be temporary. it’s the other kind, the less experienced, but the more personal and deeper love that I feel actually fits the description.

I regretted not being kinder while we still had time. That was all. I wish I had told him he was worth the Earth and the stars and that I loved him. I wish I had reminded him of it every day and night. That’s the thing. You always forget to remind people when you think you’ll have them forever.

Until we have seen someone’s darkness, we don’t really know who they are. Until we have forgiven someone’s darkness, we don’t really know what love is.