I’m like a tiny bird that goes from branch to branch, from nest to nest and chirps about songs that remind me of you. No branch compares to your steadfast ways; no nest compares to your warmth and safety.
Sunday is usually full of anxiousness, humming thoughts and nostalgia. But this morning raindrops were visiting my window. Briefly, lightly and gently. Sunday morning rain; leaving me to sail the waves of calm and sentimental. They were telling me secrets, encouraging me in some odd and foreign way. I wanted to tell them to take me with them.
My heart is a powerhouse
My veins are telegraph posts
(made of wood, metal, and concrete)
(and dreams)
Tell electricity I think of him often
My feelings grow without my consent. I wish the soil wasn’t so fertile. I wish you didn’t water me every time you saw me. Everything you do is a lullaby to me. Your voice, your words, your movements. I’m so very irrational. I wish I could make my roots grow further into the soil so I can eventually reach after you and stop you from breathing. Anything to stop this want.
Don’t ask questions
Just watch me as if you’d watch the sunset
Take me in; feel my warmth
Take in my colors; feel my distance
Take in my light; accept or refuse
But please
don’t ask me why
I’m the way I am
I never speak about my father because I’ve never had a proper relationship with him and I haven’t seen him in years. But there’s this one memory that popped up into my head while I was talking to someone.
I remember how he’d draw cats on napkins for me in order to keep me entertained when I was little. I’m convinced that’s all he knew how to draw… But it was a nice memory. It’s the only memory I have of him where he wasn’t the bad guy. He wasn’t anything except my father at that given moment. A memory so insignificant yet significant at the same time.
I’m starting to realize I like you because there are no obligations. I’m not obligated to be more to you. There’s no expectations. Just exchanging words back and forth; enough to create a slow burning fire in a deep forest. I don’t even have to be. It doesn’t matter if I’m here or you’re there, there has always been that mutual level of understanding. We’re both distant and close at the same time. It intrigues me.
You’ve built a house inside of me and you’re not even aware of it.
The walls are painted with calm colors; you’re the calmest person I know, even under pressure. Casual furniture. Long never-ending stairs (that eventually do end, the irony.); the scent of fresh wood lingers. 28 rooms; that’s your favorite number. A very long hallway that eventually leads you to me; sometimes you’ll find it vacant but my perfume still lingers. 2 ½ bathrooms; no specific reason. A very spacious kitchen with your favorite meals and beverages inside the refrigerator. A living room without the living. A patio surrounded by trees, the whispers of nature and on a good day you might see a frog hopping along its way or fireflies dancing together.
I keep the lights on for you.
I’ve become more restless and anxious.
There’s something bubbling underneath the surface.
I don’t know how to describe it.
This morning I feel like this skin won’t do.
I want to run away from it;
from myself.
Maybe I just need a nice warm cup of coffee.
A hug.
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
I want to hold your hand but I know it’s best that I don’t.
I don’t talk to you anymore but I look up your daily horoscope often in hopes it will tell me you’ll have a nice day.
