a reminder

When we speak, we cloak the intangible with words. Language can be

(and often is; and often purposefully is)


Remember that what we say is not half as important as what others hear.

Be mindful.

dream girl

You have one dimple and a freckle in your eye

You have a wind chime laugh that makes me want to sigh

Your smile haunts me; I don’t need to wonder why

You’re a manic pixie dream girl; I’ve already

Said goodbye

Traitorous lace

I lost you in my very own head. I chased your heaving breaths down corridors in my skull – I ran and I ran and I ran and I ran – but you were always just two steps too far ahead of me, just turning the corner before my feet could land on your shadow and pin you in place. You looked back once and there was a halo around you. I could smell your perfume. You turned away, ran faster, faster. I would almost catch the hem of your garment, but then it would slip though my fingers, sliding silk and traitorous lace.

I lost you in a vision that was brought on by a fever. The wallpaper of my mind was covered in markings, a mockery of your penmanship bleeding onto the carpet. Golden frames contained golden people who had no eyes, only gaping holes in the canvases that made it clear that there were monsters lurking on the other side – coming for me, coming for you and your traitorous lace. You ran from me like I was one of them. Don’t you know that I’m the one who will awaken you with a jewel-encrusted kiss? Don’t you know that I’m the hero of your story?

I lost you in the scream that never left my throat.

Sky Line

I am the line that breaks the sky.

My life is but a a fraction – a split second, a half a heartbeat – but it is long enough. What I do in one moment, others would waste decades. What I break in one instant, others have spent centuries building.

Forests burn and cities crumble. Animals flee, scurrying into their holes in the ground. Trees break and fall and scatter their shattered limbs across the earth. For me, the world cracks.

Exhale. I have come and gone; my fractional life is over.

The flash that haunts your mind is my ghost. The roar in your ears, my funeral.


tasteless ashes

“Forgiveness…? Why would I want forgiveness? I’ve never once been wrong. There is nothing to forgive.”

“How can you even say that …? You left the place in ruins. I can still feel the fire; I still have ashes under my fingernails and stuck to my lips. My hair reeks of smoke.”

At those words, your lips curl – that lopsided grin that once left me breathless –

(it does not still leave me breathless)

– and I am gaping, wondering how it is that you provided the spark, yet I am the one covered in soot and grime, smelling of your smoke. You look just as pristine as ever. Clean and untouched, seemingly untouchable. Your unbalanced smile could have been plucked from a Rembrandt painting.

“I think you have mistaken forgiveness for gratitude,” you say smoothly, that crooked grin widening –

(I am not breathless)

– as you move towards me.

(I am not)

“You’re welcome, love.”

(I am)

“Now let me taste those ashes.”

Winter Kisses

“What is snow like?” you ask, your voice dreamy yet eager. You’re a summer child; you’ve never known snow, not truly. To you, it is as whimsical and harmless as the white fluff inside a snow globe.

I decide not to ruin this romantic notion for you. “It’s soft, and cold. And very pretty,“ I say. You frown, far from appeased. “It’s… difficult to explain. Ah, here.”

Feeling bold, I take your hands and hold them. “Close your eyes,” I command, and you do. “Now, imagine. It’s cold outside, but bright. The sky is perfectly white. Falling from it are specks that blend in so seamlessly with the horizon that you can’t even see them when you look straight up. But that’s not how you notice the snowflakes.”

“How do I notice them?”

“You feel them. When you tilt your head up, something soft lands on your cheek. It feels like this.”

I take a few seconds to appreciate this moment: you, so still, so close, your hands in mine as you wait with your eyes closed. Holding my breath, I flutter my lashes across your cheek. You instantly laugh, and your face turns a brilliant pink. I laugh too, heart fluttering, and I’m sure my blush is twice as bright.

“Snow feels like a butterfly kiss?” you ask, one brow raised skeptically. You haven’t tried to pull your hands from mine, so I squeeze them more tightly.

“No, not really,” I confess. My ploy has become obvious. I never was very clever. “And neither does this one.”

I don’t think you mind that my kiss is nothing like snow.

typically nowhere

“It’s too abstract.”

You’re frowning. I’m frowning more deeply. “It’s not abstract enough,” I counter. “It still looks like something familiar to me. Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it look like something you’ve seen before?”

“Just who are you trying to reach with this?”

You ignore my question and respond with one of your own, as is typical of you. Even more typical is that I fall for this distraction technique head-on. “I don’t know. Anyone, I guess. Everyone who bothers to look at it.”

“And what are you trying to say?”

This is a much harder question. I spend several seconds thinking about it before I answer, which is incredible for someone like me. “I am not trying to say anything,” I say boldly. “And that is the point. This is art. Conceptual, abstract art. If there were words to accurately describe what it is I am trying to convey, I would be a poet or something. So, it’s not what I’m trying to say that matters. It’s whatever anyone who bothers to look at it gets from it that counts. It’s not about me; it’s about them.”

You make that face that tells me you are barely stopping yourself from rolling your eyes. I laugh. “I think you’re missing the point entirely,” you say, sighing.

“I don’t think there’s a point at all,” I respond cheekily.

You do roll your eyes when you see my shit-eating grin, and even though we’ve gotten nowhere with our conversation – typical us – I feel like I’ve won.