A Character Study of Angela

I remember lips and streaks of hair. I tumblr_no0luu4Try1tiyj7vo1_500remember a familiar face and strange grass, a sun far away and another next to my heart. I remember vague words, “I’m going;” vaguer words, “Where to?”

This is not a dream. This is a rainstorm, although it falls like hail. The pieces are not fractured––they never were––just a waiting whole, the drops that make the flood.

I remember promises and lockets and a need for both. The sunlight melted in bronze, warming the secrets already so hot in my hand.

In one concise motion, she leaned towards my collar bone and smiled into me––as if I were the sun, as if I gave the light––and I couldn’t help but learn her arms and her back, tracing it all into the locket of secrets too beautiful to utter.

“I’m going,” she told me.

“Where to?” But I already knew.

Things fell then: they fell and fell and never stopped falling. The drops came first, then the flood, all to later be washed away, all to later rush back in.

I’m drowning. I remember. She lent me the bronze secret of the sunlight and…

I loved her.


A Young and Sleepy Syrup: A Poem

couple-memories-sleeping-together-favim-com-341888our remote visibility is like the universe
never turning nor deceiving
only sparkling as love and knowledge

every skin moment brushes patiently
his breath like the dew in the grass
my own like the moon and the stars
and the sky of sweeping royalty
never so monumental as the drops

may day never break for us

our brief span of time is like eternity
expanding and inhaling
knowing only what needs to be known

the purple endlessness of everything
drips like paint on the canvas of us
his only movements meet my sides
concise to hold together the connection
which has wrought of me a blanket

may day never break for us

the strength of hands is like gravity
willpower can easily remove you from
but here it is rare to be found

as i lie and hear the hums of other rooms
at the waking of the tides of the planet
and feel him stir, feel the world stir
for the first time, for the first time,
i only pray to god

may day never break for us

A Mostly Sensationalized Account of Something I Noticed Today


It’s strange because I thought I was over him. He never crosses my mind; I no longer get the urge to speak to him. But I still, quietly, seek him out, I watch him stand up, and when I see pictures of him I still wonder what it would be like to hold his hand––to kiss him. My subconscious can’t let go.

Why is it that people feel these varying degrees of love? I can’t say I ever loved him, that’s for certain, but I can’t say I never loved him, that’s just as certain.

The myth perpetrated is that we fear love. I disagree. We aren’t afraid: we’re confused, we’re lost. We fear love only as we fear a friendly Labyrinth––not with a desire to escape, but with a desire to learn, to comprehend. It is most unfortunate for us, then, that we will never find constants as the maze continues to shift around us.

There is no unconditional love, only shades in a scale and those that do not fit in a scale. I believe what I had for him was pink––a tough, blushing fruit. It was never meant to be meaningful. But it’s always meaningful: eye contact with an intimate is meaningful; intimacy with a stranger is meaningful. Meaning is inevitable. Meaning floods our worlds, washes our veins, colors our blood red.

It’s nonsense that we are confused by our own feelings, knocked out by our own passions. “Why would you love him?” someone asked me. The truth is, I don’t know why I love. And I would bow in reverence to anyone who could spell out the complete reasoning of their heartstrings.

I write because I cannot control. I cannot control love, so I’ll keep talking about it with pompous air while I reveal little, if anything, of value.

Ciao for now,


When the Day Met the Night: A Poem

“All was golden in the sky
All was golden when the day met the night”
–Panic! at the Disco


When the sky is the ocean
and the dandelions are the suns far away,
I find my self slipping into love
with no one.

When the sky is a marigold
and the leaves are the petals,
I can’t help but feel that, somewhere,
waiting, are my pending loves.

When the sky is inside my heart
and the branches are the throbbing veins,
I realize my eyes are blazing
because none of my promised kisses have arrived.

When the sky is the blindfold
and the sidewalks are the drought in my lashes,
I find no one slipping into love
with me.

As the Raindrops Spill from My Lips: A Poem


You feel the summer land on your skin
after sailing such a chilly ocean.

Which parts of the air breathe cold?
Is it warmer where the water has planted kisses
or where the droplets have left your skin untouched?
Is the sky most beautiful at its grey peak
or in the shadows beyond the evergreens?
Does it bother you when the rainy breeze
rushes with embrace?

Is this not the spot where, a blink ago,
you stared into the tumbling night,
and wondered which stars drifted in lightyears
and which in inches?
Is this not the same breathless winter moment,
the same unmoving movement,
the same stillness in heavenly butterflies,
the same ponderings of hot and cold?

You know there is no land nor chilly ocean.

You know this is the love I promised you.