My old notebook says..

"Found a note, tangled in the sheets, said "I love you, so don't ever become me."
Echoes on the wind remember that you never could say please.

Found your picture on my porch, your cursive on the back begging "don't ever settle."

Found pieces of words from you,
scattered in the streets,
must've dropped them as you'd leave.

Oh, to be a gypsy but not a thief. "





And the next page:


"I know, I saved your life.
I was hoping you could stay in mine.
But i know that sometimes too little is too much to ask,
I just ask that when you smile,
Remember why."

Under the Bridge

Under the bridge, the lights on the bare trees are eerie. The trees themselves are skeletal, the solitary beams of light illuminating their bare limbs, as they reach upward toward the moon. Though the clearing is dark there is a subtle magic almost physically present, as if the trees might uproot themselves and come alive at any moment or the silvery rays of light could be something more than just light, but magic themselves, imbibing the underbrush, and whatever lives within.
And you, dancing about on the beams of the bridge between life and death. Dark and light. The pure rush of defiance; sweet and strong. The cool air fresh in our lungs, awakening the live nerves that are forgotten in stagnance.



I found this crumpled piece of paper in my room when I was cleaning, yesterday. I'd scrawled it out after a late night trip to the 11th street bridge one cold night in february. Looking back on those solitary pieces of paper I find around my room is always a trip.

Myths

The city looks like stars, and if holding your breath through tunnels really made desires come to life, whole hearts would breathe deeply again at the other end and join the expansive mob of people in movement, and I know you wanted those myths to be true, but the cold sun outside my window is true, and this moment as well, and can't that be enough?

Puddles

Your face is swimming in the water before me; these sun soaked, sky ridden puddles we meet on the streets, and it is you, and me, and us, as always. And now and then because then couldn't last till now by stretching itself out across the moments and exist in both places. And we were then, and I am now, and welcome back to yourself.

Composure

The light on your face, on that night in the snow;
I knew better back then, but something in me let go.
But what does it matter, if you never see the sun?
Locked up in your room, you're coming undone.
Perfect composure, out on the street,
Frozen by fear of expectations you never could meet.
Something rich, something strong, that you lost long ago,
Is the only thing that could keep you,
But you'll never again know.

Ripple

He had ideas. Positively brimming with them. She had an off the shoulder sweater and a fear of being alone at night. They understood, but opposed each other, and one cold night when the heat was out, they danced.
Their walls didn't crumble; in fact, remained quite in tact. Wary of themselves. Wary of each other. Wary because the world is alive with the arson of the past; flames that never quite die, but linger and wait for the right moments to dance behind your eyes, or deep in your stomach. And despite this, they grew. Became comfortable. Found blankets, found moments, found this moment-just this one- to live in.
This moment stretched, and true to form, ended. No love story in epic ending, just one moment-just that one-sliding into the next, it's ripple in time smoothing until it became one fluid particle in the fabric of every other moment, which slid into the next, ended, and slid smoothly into the next..

Admission

So you blame it on the hormones
Cause you have too much pride
And anything is better than admitting
That someone got inside.