nova

Beyond Seventeen

Somewhere between the movement of a hand and the idea to do so. Between where the sky shakes hands with the hazy edge of a landscape. Between when you lift a piece of cake with your fork and when you let it melt within your teeth. Between the waking and the opening of the eyes; uncaring if beyond your eyelids lies twilight or sunrise, because for a second, you live in a dark vagueness of ignorance.

romantic

with a black sharpie

To have always depended is a privilege. Loneliness is less carried than it is a lack of flesh within one's shoulders. It is shaking bones and worried lungs, for although they breathe easy and well in isolation, it is others that gift them air, whether it be tossed carelessly from mouths or gently exhaled onto dry and cracked lips.

Diluted is the fact that the true sorrow of our lives is that it is ending. We must bask in the sun of the finite infinity of love, for too soon we will no longer be acquainted with its prismatic contents, and must project the bold curtain of light to those who come after us, so that they may know that they too treck the great, bold, spiral of humanity.

I am taking a walk towards Jerusalem.

A girl's true friends

And we all breathe in tandem. Sighing, deeply. Laughing and singing, the breath lives and beats between us all, compacting our palms together, giving us a place in the myriad of things.

My soul didn’t feel at home in these new sunsets. The clouds began to gaze upon me differently, and the trees no longer danced to the intonation of my consonants with their accustomed familiarity.

Lakes jointed and stitched together by the same vast ocean, crashing and moaning under their shared longing and sorrows, and the tears of men from hundreds of hulls. They came from boats ailing from every edge of the colored blocks decorating the globes in the schoolhouse windows.

It trickled and fell, grain compacting grain. It seemed to tumble slowly, and then all at once. Time passing in a never-ending pattern until its blue tinted interior reflected the handful of sand as if the top was full again, and I cried. Helplessly, endlessly, while the hourglass remained still and stubborn in its finality.

True Lovers

I used to watch the powerlines. They stretched thin and broadly in intricate patterns across the windows of the city. I would imagine myself, older, stronger, gliding across them and leaping between their threads in bounds and jumps, running up and down the streets of New York City, their roofs welcoming me with a laugh and a gentle palm on my shoulder. Weak electrical currents would toss me higher and higher until I fell back down; thin, black yarn catching me within its protective grasp. 

Summer was a concept eternally harbored between the girls’ languidly excited bodies. Even as the dark hours grew long and tiresome, and snow began to torment the fields and flowers, their sundress remained a constant apparel, repelling the thought of the coming ivory season. And when summer began to escape the chill’s unrelenting, sordid grasp upon the earth, it was as if nature began to accommodate the girls’ benign behavior. They were none-the-wiser of the intentions of the sun’s gullible appearance reflecting the unyielding decoration of freckles painted upon pale, porcelain faces by the hands of a delicate, experienced brush.