every afternoon
I step into a darkened room, concealed
His strokes stop midway through the colored tip
I fumble to tie strings loose, layers peeled
We breathe, I wait; he feels to get much grip
He guides my limbs knowing, devoid of shame
A routine one could never get used to
Brushes burn at every inch of my frame
His steps retreat to base, craves come to view
I follow him, cheeks flush I steer his brush
On canvas freed it seeks splashes of white
I guide his hands knowing, contact to rush
To bring this afternoon into the night
I step out of a darkened room, denuded
Of inner walls that once were excluded.
traces
Streaks of sunlight shine through, waking me from deep slumber; continuing to retrace footsteps back to base.
I clutch onto the almost unrecognizable map.
Tattered and torn.
Endless groans etched with hunger and hopelessness leave my dry, parched lips.
Broken and worn.
My jumbled thoughts and sloppy footsteps lead me to battle without armory.
Weak and forlorn.
But the chaos slowly drowns, with sounds of waves crashing against parched land.
My eyes widen as I push the blade deeper into the wound, hope finally coming to light.
I eye recognizable traces of human.
his/hers
His surfboard sits right beside him.
The morning quiet and calm.
Till the waves come crashing in.
Like the sweats in his palm.
“How would you feel if a boy liked you?”
“I-, I honestly don’t know.”
His surfboard feels heavy under his toes.
The waves don’t feel like home.
He crashes deep, where no one knows.
Still thinking of the boy no one owns.
“He’s leaving tomorrow.”
“I know.”
He stays.
And counts down the days.
chance?
Not being sure isn’t always a bad thing.
It just means that you’re letting yourself drift.
Be it like rocky waves crashing recklessly against pebbled shores,
or like tiny droplets sliding off thorn-edged leaves in the summer haze.
I take pride in being crazy-curious.
Oil that drives a motor to efficiency floats just above the perspiration that puddles between my fingers.
Curiosity doesn’t work my gears,
but boy does it drive the countless ‘what ifs’ riding my train of thought.
Trapped in-between routines and familiarity, I always try to escape.
And I think you should too.
I mean, what could go wrong?
connecting his dots
The first time I met him, the stars weren’t aligned. But the warmth of his tones amidst the chills tickling my already sweater-clad body ignited my hope for a shooting star.
It never came until one chance encounter in the cafeteria.
Rays of bliss shone through large glass windows, filling the glum and empty spaces in-between his bushy eyebrows. He seemed deep in thought, almost like a dark, starless night.
The first time I met him, the image of a perfect constellation invaded my plain perspective on landscapes.
But I got fooled.
For behind those gleaming eyes and almost shy smiles are overlooked sunsets and seasons.
And besides the rainbows in his deep eyes,
I’d be willing to dance in the storms that come before.
love = bittersweet
It should feel like a warm embrace after cold nights of drowning in isolation.
It should smell like freshly baked bread being displayed on wooden shelves.
It should sound like giggles threatening to escape chapped lips after a makeout session.
But instead, it feels blue and lost on most days.
And I think that’s still okay.
Love creeps up on you in the good, the bad, and the confusing moments.
