I am gasoline and he is a lighted matchstick. When put this way it is no wonder, I am the brilliancy in the dark as I tantalize and dance in vivid colors to the amusement and wonderment of the spectators on the side, ignorant, I am burning too in my infernal, hellish flame whilst they applaud.
Not all that hears are listening
and not all that reads truly understand
what they are reading.
A voice reverberated inside my head and each word delivered hit the four lobes of my brain like stray bullets, “he would have moved heaven and earth, he would have done everything in his power… he would have…but he didn’t.”
That is the first of two truths. The second, the truth is harsh.
I’ve made peace with life being imperfect and the fact that one cannot have everything. But isn’t it too cruel that of all the things that could be taken from me I am made to live without those I loved the most?
“Did you know him?”
“No.”
“Can you describe him for me?”
“No.”
“Was it dark?”
“No.”
“Was he wearing a mask?”
“No.”
“Well what can you tell me about him?”
“Nothing but that he took the breaths
from my lungs even before I could exhale them
and he runaway with my heart as though my heart
was a feather that floated into his waiting hands.”
What happens if you’re not wearing your glasses?
He pushed his glasses up his nose with his bony index finger. “I can’t see.”
I looked at his eyes behind the black rims and I thought to myself, “You still can’t see me.”
Flowers were created pretty. You know, they’re like camera-ready. You aim at any part, you shoot, presto! Not everything and everyone though is as fortunate as a flower. I may be made by the same hands that molded rolling hills and kneaded the sands in the coastlines of the Pacific to their finest but I am marred with imperfections from head to toe and I’m afraid there is little I can do to outrun this misfortune.
(And) I suppose this is why I have a fondness for photographers. They recognize beauty where beauty does not readily lie and they can make even the most mundane object lying on the street appear interesting, thought provoking, sensationally beautiful.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed when you look at me, your eyes would be blessed with the same keenness and acuity as that of a photographer. I pray your eyes won’t chastise and hastily damn me for the imperfections I bear but on the contrary would take the time to search through my visage and angles until you find what beauty I may have reserved.
I’m not a flower, but see that I am and I will be.
It was simple then. The first box of crayons I owned had 8 colors, black, red, brown, green, yellow, blue, orange and violet. It was all a child needed to keep herself preoccupied in a corner with her coloring books. Flowers would be colored red, the sun, yellow, leaves were green and the tree barks were brown. Simple. I was satisfied.
Then I came to school and saw my seat mate had 16 crayons in her box. She had yellow-green. I used to color yellow over where I had green to get that. She had blue-violet too, and oh god she had pink! I sure would like to color my flowers pink! I learned then what I had wasn’t enough, I needed more.
The more I had, the more I needed. The 16 became a box of 24s, 36s, 200+. There was green, blue green, mint green, light green, lime-green, violet, blue-violet, purple, mauve, lilac, magenta, pink, rose-pink, a variety of color with names I can no longer remember-probably because I barely used them. They remained in the box, untouched, with their semi-pointed tips staring at the carton lid while only a handful had their paper coverings unwrapped and used until they are exhausted to their stubs.
Most of the time, the things we lust after are like crayons in a box. They are pretty to look at but they’re really not necessary in life.
Besides, what’s the difference between blue-violet and violet-blue?
You don’t need to listen hard or look deep into a person’s life to know they are missing someone. Everyone has lost someone, maybe to death, maybe to the wrong choices they made in the past, maybe to the situations that were out of their hands. Whichever reason it is, the facts remain, everyone loses someone. We will lose more than one person we love in our lifetime. We all share this sentiment.
If you think no one understands, someone does.
I’ve said I wanted to drown in you, figuratively speaking, as if it was something pleasant, like having tea in a courtyard late in the afternoon. Literature had beguiled me into believing it is a romantic statement. But I found to drown literally, and to drown in you figuratively, runs toward the same course of a quick and quiet death.
And I don’t want to die just yet.
Anyone read the story on Yahoo news about the found message in a bottle? Good lord, I’m tearing up while smiling over it.
Wouldn’t it be amazing if I throw one and the tide sweeps it to your shore?
But I dunno, the dash is blue, I’m going to pretend it is the ocean and I threw a poem out, and it gets reblogged and passed around. I’m going to pretend they’re the tides and the waves, and somehow, the next morning, after you’ve logged in, you find my poem on your dash. And you wrote back to me. See, it’s like everyday we’re throwing messages in a bottle to the ocean.
There are only two songs I would like to hear.
I’ll record them and put them on replay.
The first is you saying my name,
and the second is your laugh.
To me, those are music, enough.
