something beautiful.

windy highway drives. Sunday afternoons in April. falling asleep to the sound of rain.

infinite

On the longest day of the year, we walked the city until our feet bled. Somehow that was okay, because it was 9 pm and the sun still hung onto the sky by hairline strands of rays. I couldn’t be pulled away from those moments even if I wanted to go.

I told you all my summer stories before the sun went down. I told you about the hills and rare sunny days, about fruit teas that tasted like flowers in my mouth, about how I tried to decide what love is while eating a ham and swiss sandwich in a San Francisco coffee shop. Maybe I hadn’t learned a thing about life, but maybe being happy was easy if I just stopped holding on so tightly.

I told you how the last few weeks were like waking up from a dream and realizing that this wasn’t my life, how I spent the last night laughing and crying and talking and I wouldn’t have spent it any other way. And somehow it was all okay, because it was perfect and it was always meant to end.

And when I woke up in the morning, all the sadness was gone. Because nothing was lost, only gained. And maybe summer is over, but we’re still here. And breakfast makes mornings perfect.

Morning sounds

  • early birds
  • a kettle about to boil
  • distant sirens
  • a beating heart and worried voices. I wish we would all stop worrying and see that the world is beautiful.

Saturday afternoons with you

solving little wooden puzzles
and drinking cold-brewed tea.
there was never a more
perfect way to be.

I used to tiptoe out of my room as a kid, to listen at my parents’ bedroom door for signs of whispered arguments. Sometimes I still do. Who would let their child grow up like this? There’s too much fear in the world. When did everything become so

broken.

indistinguishable whispers.

staring out the window into the darkness,
as endless black vines creep along its edges
and crosshatched lines glisten
faint silver linings.
whether moonlight or mould,
who will ever know?

I used to embroider secret messages
into the stitching
where your soul met your dreams,
telling you stories of how I was afraid
that the world would
swallow me whole.

the night stares blatantly back,
a monster escaping from the clutches of darkness.
a disease, heedlessly clawing toward the surface.
a mirror image in my eyes, searching for
a pound of flesh,
an inherently defiant nature.

where do I belong?
where do I belong?

Sometimes I fly.

When I looked out the window, there was a single layer of clouds that covered the entire city. It was another world above those clouds; a suddenly sunny day that had been preceded by hints of rain only moments ago on the runway. Would you live in a castle in the clouds with me?

I watched the world like a minuscule board game below me, cars meandering along highways like game pieces. At night, city lights sprawled across the landscape like a pointillism painting and neighbouring stars said hello. I could almost discern the answer to all of my questions in their abstract meaning.

Maybe I could leave entire cities behind in minutes, watching lightning light up the night sky below. Maybe I just wanted to tell you all of these things, about the planes and the clouds, the suitcase carts and the biology student who drove me to the airport.

Anyway, the point was just to say I miss you.

you, my child of light.

hey. can we stay still for a moment?
I think the world must be passing me by.
I want to hold you still like a promise in the night,

fluttering silent butterfly wings,
making wishes on stars we can’t see.
we can talk about adventures we have in our sleep.
be quiet with each other under a tree.

(this was never meant to be poetry.)

time is slipping through my fingers like stardust. I am a subway train rushing toward the sight of the sun.

what is love known by?
she said, “when it is hard to say goodbye.”

Sometimes I just want to call you and say, “Sorry I yelled at you. On a completely unrelated note, you’re a wonderful, brilliant, magical human being and I love you.” I admit it lacks a certain grace and articulation, but sometimes I just want to tell you what’s on my mind and let you take it in in your own beautifully graceful manner.

Whisper

This house is thick with voices telling stories about the past. They create a clamour, a wave that moves past me as if I’m not there. I’m in the present and you’re in the past and we don’t listen to each other, we never listen to each other. Our conversations are discordant noises muffled by heavy air. I’m a foreign object dodging ghosts and this house is an artifact living in its stories. It’s like waking up from a convoluted dream that felt like a nightmare but there was nothing scary about it. I said thank you to the driver when I got off the bus today. He gave me a funny look and I realized afterward that he probably hadn’t heard me over the clamour. The air swallows my voice before it even leaves my lips. When I talk, I can’t hear a thing.

We are looking at each other through the dark with firelight eyes, listening to each other’s disjoint thoughts. Haphazardly doesn’t even begin to describe it.

I have to believe that when we break we don’t lose the pieces, and one day we find the courage to put them back together. Some days we’re terrible people with good moments. and some days we’re good people with tragic moments.

We are ever falling and rising like smoke, never staying in one place, never contained in one thought. My emotions are written on little coloured notes and pinned to my heart. I hold a few of them in my hands, sometimes they’re hard to handle.

We could cover the walls of an entire room with our thoughts, we could drape our souls over bookshelves and let them soak up the stories. We could dance on clouds. We could gather dust. I have to believe there will be good moments.