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”

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a [first] love

sept 22

the morning was dawning. i had fallen asleep with heartache on my lips. i looked across and she was here again, she looked cute in my pajamas and the waking sun cast her in a soft light.

she bent and unbent herself as if she were a folding chair, and she stroked my arm with her finger.

the clothes were hanging up in the window, drying from the night before, framing the hills like curtains onto the world’s stage.

i looked back to her finger still stroking my arm, she opened up her mind to speak and thought,

“You know, you’re beautiful -”

i had never heard her think that before, the infant sun rays bathed themselves against the window panes in light of my awe.

“You know, you’re beautiful -. There’s no one else like you in the world. Your heart beats to a different drum… I think… you could try embracing it.”

dec 12

IMG_20141212_194516

and so i tried.

[self-love]

teetering

between hopelessly hopeless and infinitely infinite. 

rewriting the same story over and over again.

the same thought swimming around in your mind,

“hey, i think i’ve seen that tree before.”

looking back to see 

you’ve been forever stretched, like a gum of rope,

from one end to another,

weathering a great and beautiful expanse – 

for what?

it is yet to be seen.

the state of (in)between

the process. the practice. the journey.

we think of it in agony. sometimes. often. panic/excitement/anguish.

we forget that it is…

the art of making. of baking pies (blueberry). the anticipation of sweet reward. that which makes making so sweet. and sour.

but have hope. take courage. squeeze out every bit of confidence. because once it has passed. it is only memory.