Blue Eyes: A Poem


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I can imagine being aligned with him––

my knees touching his,

my elbows laying against his elbows,

our hands and fingers beyond intertwined.

I can imagine finding myself

by losing myself in his blue eyes.

I can imagine the stars all falling into straight, perfect lines

for our brief breath of time

just to satisfy the second, and

I can imagine everything coming together––

with no words, we can discover whole truths.

I can imagine becoming completely parallel with him,

a mirror reflection,

like we are one and the same,

indistinguishable, inseparable.

I can imagine entire worlds exploding into focus

as we lay motionless, creating universes with our heartbeats.

I can imagine us glowing with synchronization

as we pour into each other, a seamless bond

that spreads so the whole world makes sense.

She is a Beautiful Human


She is a beautiful human,

the one you see now,

before you,

applying her makeup in the bathroom.

She is filled with impeccable creative energy

like a light

that comes from within.

And it is nothing short of perfect,

the way her laughter fills a room;

every quality she posses,

no matter how bizarre others perceive it,

is just as it should be.

Now touch her collar bone,

her hair,

kiss her lips,

realize her body

and her beauty

are your own,

and come to love her

like you can no one else.

400 Followers!


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It’s so hard to wrap my head around the fact that 400 (really, now, 407) people have consciously and willingly followed this little hub of nonsense that I call mikkiaaron. I would send you each a note of my gratitude, but there’s hardly time and these 400 words should suffice.

Had someone told me three years ago that this tremendous number of individuals would be reading what I had to say, I probably would have been taken aback. “400 followers?” I would have scoffed. “Me?” But here we are. And I could not be more proud, or more pleased.

This has been quite an adventure of self-discovery and improvement. Each one of these posts represents my real situations, and my real feelings, even if they’re abstracted, and it’s been great to have the opportunity to share them with all 400 (give or take 7) of you, especially since I’ve been accepted so graciously by everyone who reads mikkiaaron.

Even now in my life, I’m having doubts about how far I can take my writing––or, rather, how far my writing can take me. However, I know that here, on this blog, there will always be a place for whatever words I need to throw into the world, and there will be someone to read those words once they’ve been tossed into the void. I put things onto mikkiaaron that I can’t say out loud; I’ve written all sorts of indirect things to people in my life, feeling safer knowing that they will never read them. Maybe that makes me weak, but it doesn’t really matter, because the words will strike someone else, and, if they don’t, they’ll remain on this blog until I need to see them again.

The transformations my writing has undergone between the time I started out and now are simply preposterous. I can recall the excitement when that first “like” rolled in after my first-ever post, and a bit of that still exists with every notification that comes. A lot of you guys come by quite often, and it’s almost like you’re my…fans. It’s weird to use that word, especially since I’m still a measly amateur. What I mean to say is that it makes me something beyond happy to see people coming back to read whatever bit of writing is new. That, by itself, is absolutely fantastic. Nine-fantastic_zps40b2eaf8

Thank you all so much for being a part of mikkiaaron.

Ciao for now,

Mikki

Over a Cup of Coffee: A Short Story


coffee-cute-hipster-indie-Favim.com-363249“But what words are there?”

He utters this over a cup of coffee, staring at a floor so intensely that he must be able to see the stars behind it.

I don’t want to distract him. Instead, I take a sip from the Styrofoam cup that hums warmth beneath my own chin, and appreciate the sunlight that leaks from the crack in the lacy curtains. It falls pleasantly along the left side of his face, so that he almost appears lit from the inside, as though it is his light filling the room.

Sharply, his eyes adjust to mine. “What words are there?”

I hold him there, suspended in my gaze. It’s impossible to know what he sees in me, but as long as he sees it, it must be real.

His entire being shifts when he cracks a smile. “Oh, there are so many words.”

His fingertips rest gently across the surface of the table, just inches from mine. He refrains from drumming them; they rest, just so, soft and clean, centering him.

“Fantastic, beautiful, perfect,” he sighs, content and himself. “Splendid, lovely, irreplaceable. All things that mean good.”

As he lifts the steaming cup to his lips, a cool evening breeze rushes in to kiss me. Too soft, too ethereal, to be anything but a part of this moment, it heightens my senses so that I notice the sparkles in his eyes.

“Have you ever been in love?” he asks me.

It’s not important, so I don’t answer. Mostly, I am focused on him, precisely as he is right now. By ignoring everything else, I can preserve this moment.

“Words are so important,” he breathes. There is a longing like love in his voice. “But sometimes they’re not the most important.”

A few minute details of him catch my eye most of all. I watch the bones of his wrists as he moves his hands, the curvature of his lips at rest, the illusionary rainbows glinting of his eyelashes in what little midday sunlight the curtains allows.

Pulling the curtain aside, he whispers, “Sometimes, you have to sacrifice the lyrics, and just listen to the song.” Deliberate movements pull him away from the view outside and into the room with me. There is a new distinction in the atmosphere now: the room, freshly flooded with light, fills every part of his face and figure, creating, through him, a candle as bright and as steady as the sun, burning from within.

From corner to corner, his frame fills with a warmth, a love, so intense that it explodes out of him and carries itself over to me. There is nothing but love in his eyes, and it floats straight from his heart.

“My god, love,” he begins.

I don’t let him finish his sentence.

The Light: A Poem


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There is a light, this I can see:

It sheds its weary rays on me.

It flickers in the heart of him,

But, as I know, it’s rather dim.

 

He denies its right to fly,

To brighten up the weary sky,

To be a kite among the stars,

To run alongside freeway cars.

 

He keeps it bottled up inside,

To corrode its comely hide,

To condense its complex frame

Into boring, dull, the same;

 

So I must search inside myself,

And pull a light off my own shelf,

And use it to light up this place,

Until it fills all time and space.

 

Only then will he begin

To recognize his fatal sin:

Being miser of one’s light

Removes life from all delight.