when the words come home

five days ago, i scribbled some lines in a notebook–and then promptly went into the bathroom to splash water on my face to stop the tears from falling.

you see, those lines, they took on the shape of a poem of sorts, and it has been years and years since i last was able to write poetry. i don’t know; maybe my words got locked up somehow, tucked away in all my suitcases and heartbreaks until i was ready to use them again.

but five days ago, they came back, and some deep part of my soul felt like weeping at their homecoming.

the moral of the story? well, go easy on yourself, i suppose is where i’d start. listen to what your heart is telling you and take careful notes, but don’t ever try to force something into being before its time. art, love, opportunity–they can be fragile, and delicate things like these must be handled with care.

(and, of course: celebrate. celebrate life as it unfolds before you. even if you don’t create poetry from it, you still need to celebrate. these are the good days, the ones that matter–i promise.)

//

at midnight
a blanket of stars,
a sharp intake of breath,
a silence so deep it roars like waterfalls in your ears–
amidst it all, shrouded
in a sea of inky blue,
the moon hangs low, almost
apologetically,
as if she too is sorry that she couldn’t make
this moment last
forever.

//

of love (& other things)
sometimes, when it’s quiet, i can hear the ebb
and flow
of us–
a cadence of unmet expectations
and a mirroring, a recognition
of the tender places in one another;
and i ache, i ache, i ache
to press my palm against all your wounded parts.

it’s a song of difficult questions
and figuring out a soul
and learning to serve another in a better way;
it’s sharing stories
and sharing secrets:
all the things we don’t give away easily.
it’s rebirth;
it’s an awakening–
crumbling walls,
a turning key,
an open door.

it’s carefully chosen words
and how we look at each other with feelings.
it’s a tremble,
a quick breath,
the slightest moment of hesitation.

it’s showing up
and digging in
and speaking hard truths
and bridging the gap.
it’s tough conversations
and opened-up hearts
and shut-down defense mechanisms;
it’s standing there, fully
exposed,
shivering because you don’t know what comes next.

IT IS A VERB.

it’s a seed of doubt,
of possibility,
a comma–and the weight
of what that could mean:
the beginning of the end
and the end of the beginning;
they’re really just two sides of the same coin, now that
i think about it.

so that, or maybe–
just a beginning?

//

on a cold afternoon in december
the water in my drinking glass, it
quivers–

like the hind leg of the snoring pup beside me,
like autumn’s last leaf
before it submits to winter winds
and bids farewell to its branch,

and my breath,
how it catches
slightly
in my throat,
as i think of this time last year
and how it makes me sad to realize
i hadn’t yet known you.

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