garden in the city

she wore a mustard yellow skirt in a grey city,
watercolored the streets a pale yellow as she crisscrossed
gliding from subway to skyscraper to sandwich shop

his bright blue slacks were sky against white washed buildings
which stood heavier than clouds
window panes neither filled with rain nor rainbows

they met at the corner of watsons and holmes
somehow they managed to spill into each other
though the traffic lights weren’t on their coffee break

their colors splattered against the crosswalk
stained each other at the intersection
buds of green grass were planted everywhere that day


half & half – 50% seen, 50% imagined
9.15.17, O., J., Planet Earth, Milky Way

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“love liberates”

Love liberates. It doesn’t bind. Love says, ‘I love you. I love you if you’re in China. I love you if you’re across town. I love you if you’re in Harlem. I love you. I would like to be near you. I’d like to have your arms around me. I’d like to hear your voice in my ear. But that’s not possible now, so I love you. Go. – Maya Angelou

the Bohemian by the sea

does it matter that you can feel the warmth of the sunlight on your shoulders, the salty sea breeze in your hair, and at the same time, see the storm clouds up ahead?

does it matter that the sea holds immense sadness in its depths, and yet at the same time reflects the joy of the sun in the glinting rhythm of waves?

do these things matter? do they have a place in business? in finance? amongst skyscrapers? alongside ships that carry cargo from one place to the next?

can someone say that it is okay to honor the new and mourn the lost all in the same moment? all in the same day. can someone shout this from the rooftops and whisper it in the shadows? instead of this. this silence. this, unspoken name. this covering up with words of new.

can someone tell the masses, “it is okay to not be okay on this day.” or even the next.

it is o.k.

it is okay.

it is ok to not live in the binary. in the ‘either or’ but to let things co-exist, mash, intertwine. mix.

binary is not how it always is anyways.

it’s not how it ever was.

volcanic ash

a sign of time, of leftover loves, a signal that shifts the tectonic plates of chasms we thought had once been properly stitched up

only to wander upon them and find, they’d just been laid dormant

the roundest, warmest salt water tear rolled out, we let it commemorate

remembrance, a battle scar, a battle cry

one hundred and four years later, still eruptions

signs of love, of loss

a simple excuse for our defeat, and a victorious reason for our persistence, to love deeper, to love wider, to love more consistently

“to go to the places that challenge who we think we want to become”