the poet

she loves change.  she loves the feeling of being unknown in a new place;  where no one can recognize her,  where not a single soul has looked on her face.  there’s something exciting about being the unknown in someone else’s familiar.

i’m restless again.  tossing and turning,  ankles twisted in my sheets and hair spilling over my pillow.  i feel the familiar itch in my chest, the one i’m careful not to touch. but the ocean is drumming in my ears,  it’s calling me away.  my hair longs to be tousled by the kiss of the wind and pinned up with stars. there is no rest for the tired, yearning soul.

parallel lines -   they share a moment together but never meet. they have a split second where one looks up and notices the other; they might smile, offer a glance or nod,  but in the end, they divide. it makes me sad that they had one moment before drifting,  as if they just tasted what could have been, wondered at the possibility, but never took the risk and were condemned to wander the rest of their line alone.

i don’t know how to respond to stunning beauty.  the kind that makes you freeze and feel like you’ve been hit in the chest,  the kind where you can feel it tingling in your toes; as if you’ve seen something otherworldly. i want to capture it, but set it free,  i want to display it to the world, but keep it for myself,  i want to snap a picture, but memorize it in my mind. there are so many contradictions running through me that i forget about the beauty in front of me.  and then i can't respond, because it’s gone

i never want to loose the scent of apple blossoms and lilac buds.  i want to drink it in, to have it fill me and overflow from my pores.  but the flowers fade, the aroma grows dull -  and i can’t hold on forever

he’s just a boy when his mother first comes home with her secret. he watches at the door as she kisses a man goodbye, a smile filling her lips. he thinks of his father, thrown across the couch in the living room because he was too exhausted to finish the work he had to do. his mother catches him in shock and annoyance. her eyes flash as she places a finger to her lips. “not a word,” she hisses. he nods and turns to go, but still catches her last words. “i’m lonely and overworked. the boy’s father does nothing for me. i deserve this.” he presses his lips together and hides under his covers. he’s just a teenager when his first girlfriend goes behind his back with someone else. he hardly dares to confront her on it, but it has to happen. she looks at him nervously, wringing her hands behind her back. “it just felt right. you and me—we aren’t going anywhere. i don’t think it will work out with us. i deserve someone who can make me laugh. i love him.” he shrugs and walks awa...

on days like these i yearn to be rid of the repressing conventions of small talk and agendas; to travel where the wind takes me. to not have to put up a mask of cheerfulness because i can’t define the twisting in my stomach. to be free and alone.