Twice Reflected Sun

I used to have this theory on moments. It cursed their existence and doubted those that took them by the hand. Maybe it was waking up to sunshine eyes or is there a hole in the net that gloomy clouds have cast over me. A change of heart. Living in these dying moments is what makes everything or anything seem that little more sweet. Catching petals from falling blossom. Raindrops on eyelashes. The softness of feathers against your fingertips. I see why people choose to live in their death. Let us be soft and delicate. Carefree and wild. Fragile and concerned. Embracing and ready. A unique design that does not have to encourage us to feel all at once. Participation may find love; beautiful gardens to wander about all day, a dusty book turning out to be the greatest read of your life, inspired photography from years ago taking you into the unfamiliar, warm tea after the coldest day, incredible sound to lose and find every answer in, the feel of the most unruly wind in your hair, poetry speaking to you like no other, rosy cheeks and radiant smiles.


I used to scorn at the wake of light. Sometimes I still do.

Maybe the use of past tense is still relevant for me. Perhaps I am not yet done talking about love. Contrary to what I have led myself to believe. I love the idea, and that's the hardest eventuality to let go of. I'm using love as an excuse, a tactic of denial.

I should have posted this in higher spirits, I failed to.
This is no time to fall apart. Is there anybody else?

Through Low Lights and Trees

Everything is new and shiny. It all needs to remain so pristine. Us humans, we are messy. We make things messy too. So easy to lose but not to find. Everything is happening at once.

So I would love to write something beautiful, and to know that it came from nothing but the thin air of imagination. No connection, tie or strung meaning. Oh would it not be wonderful to know that memory, the songs of childhood or situations of happenstance had not a care in the world and refrained from the piece of writing I laid before you. That, living through mistakes and darkness was not the core to my twisty soul. But in these admissions I do give myself to you. Though beware, it may not be absolute. The river has not quite yet burst the floodplain yet. I use no comma as I do not intend for it to occur. I'll let you in because you are so special. I would love to once write of a metaphorical importance and know it is not the personification of one I may have pitied/rejoiced/missed/loved/sorrowed. Will I ever cease to be in limbo? Break the solace of ambivalence? Live. I would just love to write for the sake of writing. For you.


"Can you hold me like you held someone, you shouldn't have let go?"