“What makes you write the things you do about her?”, asked Time.

A long sigh escaped my mouth. How could I possibly evenĀ begin to explain that? I would need an inordinate amount of time to barely scratch the surface about you, and even then, it would not be time enough. The way you look when you are lost in your favorite book, and how you would rest those lovely cheekbones on your arm as you fell deeper into your story. The way your freckles would dance in the sun, and at night, would glow and create the most awe-inspiring constellations that any stargazer could ever imagine. The way you brush your hair when you are unsure of yourself, not knowing just how incredible you and your resolve are. Where could I even start?

“Well?”, Time asked again.

I thought again of all the times we shared, all the wondrous memories we created together. That day in the library when I dared to put my arm around you, even for a moment. The night you caught me staring at you, not at all your incredible beauty, but atĀ you, and all the gorgeous things I saw in you that you never would have seen in yourself. The night I laid my head upon your chest, and listened closely to the humbling sound of your heartbeat. Each beat, each draw of breath, brought me deeper in love with that sound, and with you. And to this day, it amazes me that even now, despite the silence, I still find your heartbeat echoing in my own. I knew my answer.

“I write this way for many reasons,” I started. ” For one, it helps me stay in touch with the amazing feelings she made me once feel, hell, still feel. Have you ever met someone that made you question, well, everything? Who you were, what you believed in, what you’d stand for in your life? Secondly, because I am constantly finding new ways to say that three-worded phrase everyone wants to hear in their life. Maybe one night I write about her in her prom dress, and how humbled I felt in her presence. Or I try, in my flawed, human way, to describe what it felt like to hold her hand, or have her in my arms. It doesn’t matter if it’s an eight paragraphed story, or an eight word thought; every piece that I could ever hope to create is my attempt at telling her that I love her.”

“But lastly,” I said, my eyes growing dark, “I write because I cannot give her my love. It is through no fault of our own, but rather, the circumstances of our lives. And so, I write. I create these words to form the pillars of a colossal temple, for her, so that she may visit at any time, for this world can be cruel and unforgiving. I write, for her, vast libraries for her to fall in to, to get those adoring brown eyes lost in. I cover the walls with metaphors and similes for her to find solace in, as if I, in my imperfect form, can ever hope to capture her essence in words. When she looks at the floor, she will find literary gemstones that reflect her imperfect perfection, and when she gazes upon the ceiling, she can find the familiar pattern of her freckles guiding her on her path. If she were to stop and listen, she can hear the echoes of her laughter floating throughout the halls, and if she truly stood quiet, she could hear the faint murmur of her heartbeat, just as it echoes in my mind. I write, so that when she has nowhere else to turn to, she can come and visit me, as I try to express just how strongly and deeply she has moved my heart and soul. She can come to this shrine, in as many pieces as she may find herself, and become whole again. Can you ever come to understand something as precious as that?”

I turned, and looked to Time. “And when the day comes when you finally come for me, these pillars I worked so hard to create, will crumble to dust, as will everything else I have ever known. And from her temple, the dust of me that I poured into each and every word will whisper ‘I love you’ into the infinity of the universe, where it will echo for all eternity, as a constant reminder that for me, it was never over, and to her, my heart will always truly belong.”



The rumble of thunder
passes by overhead.
The clouds break
as lightning rends the sky.
The Earth grows to a fever pitch
challenging the Sky above.
The heavens
consumed in rage
hurl bolts of blistering bitterness
upon the callous Earth
setting fire to His works.
Thrice does she strike
and thrice does he respond
with silence.
The repose between these two
primordial forces lingers
like a spirit taken too soon
from these lands,
and the Skies collapes
against the Earth,
showering his scorched valleys
with blessed waters,
and the Earth takes it all,
and shows the heavens that Light
can come from from Shadow.

Is it not comforting to know
that even Nature breaks
and forgives?

Take pride in doing the same,
won’t you?



Must I show you?

Walk with me,
won’t you?
You believe to know me,
all that I was
all that I am
all that I will be.
But you haven’t the slightest idea.
I am the result of a thousand loves
that have spanned across the ages.
The blood of my ancestors courses
through my very veins
and you claim to know
the extent of my potentiality?
Allow me
to illuminate
your darkened state of mind.
Those that came before me
made their homes
in the frigid tundras of the North.
They were reveled for the prowess
in battle
and feared
for they fought like men and women
The gods and goddesses they worshiped
were not done so out of fear
but out of respect,
for they believed that they strode alongside
them, in tranquil equality.
Though I am far from the quality
of spirit they possessed,
I am emboldened by their sacrifices
so that I may walk alongside you
So no,
you have no idea
who I am.
do I think
you ever will.

Must I show you?



I pity the beings
born in my time the most.
They believe that it is
well to not care
to harden their hearts
to suppress their own emotions
and heart
for the sake of
How is it
that we have become
so ashamed of ourselves
that we find our own emotions
more blight
than blessing?
Do you wish to know the secret
of true strength?
It is not based in sheer physicality,
nor is it won
in the realms of the mind.
humbling strength
is in allowing yourself
to feel.
To cry
to scream
to rage
to laugh
to love.
Do not wait seven minutes
to text the one you love.
Do not play games with yourself,
for this life is short.
Why add to the despair
and anguish of the world
when you can be the reason
one believes in tomorrow?

Do not harden yourself, young one,
for there is much left yet to feel.



He calls you beautiful, or even sexy, I’m sure,
But that’s where he stops, isn’t it?
He’s never attempted to describe the way
sunlight ignites your freckles,
making the stars in the heavens burn in jealousy,
or try his best to explain the precise moment when your laugh
hits his eardrums, and makes him feel like the luckiest man on Earth.
He’s never told you how your hair will just
above your collarbone, dancing ever so lightly upon your skin.
He’s probably never told you that you,
and you alone,
are the surest proof of God,
for there is no way that you could have happened by chance.
But, maybe, that’s what you want.
Something safe, something that presents little risk,
Something that you can take or leave.
Because you’ve been there,
caught between the waves of isolation and uncaring,
and you’ve clung to happiness like driftwood,
only to have it dashed against the rocks of denial,
so you’ve learned to let go of real love,
the kind that pushes you to be better,
that kind that takes you to heights you’ve never dreamed of.
Maybe all you want is someone that will take you at your base value,
who doesn’t want to inspect the cracks,
who will cower at your demons,
Because anything deeper would just be too painful,
and you could not survive it another time.
But darling,
If you aren’t willing to fall,
You’ll never be able to fly.
And your wings are much
too large for his cage.


Love, Cosmic

Did it ever occur to you,
that the universe,
in it’s grand design,
had conspired to bring us together?

That we are drawn to one another,
like planets in orbit,
and the constellations, a chart,
from me, to you?

Is it really so hard to believe,
that maybe,
we were born from the same cluster of space dust,
and that our very atoms yearn to be together again?

If I claim to believe in anything,
it would be the stars above,

and you.

Always you.



It’s peculiar,
this feeling you give me.
I always assumed that love was this grandiose
fancy dinners,
vests and dresses,
diamonds and pearls.
Maybe love is still about those things,
but then I met you,
and suddenly all of that changed.
For the first time, I wanted nothing more than to simply
with you.
I craved you, in the simplest and most innocent of ways.
To come over and have you in nothing but an old t-shirt,
worn out sweat pants,
and mismatched socks.
Your hair, a fantastical mess of chocolate
swirled about your lovely cheekbones,
connecting the dots of your sweet freckles,
as we watched or read whatever spoke to your soul,
and I would twirl your hair in my hands
as you fell in and out of sleep against my chest.
I wanted to make late night tampon runs,
in the chill of night,
and as we drove over to the store,
you would clutch my arm in the frigid thralls of your car.
I wanted to see you bare,
to turn the worn pages of your soul,
to read the you that you are when you are alone,
the no make-up, no effort version of you
because that is the only form that speaks the truth.
Now, I know that you aren’t supposed to look
for other people to save you,
but when I am around you,
the world becomes, like crystal,
My spirits rise, and the skies,
thick with smoke and haze,
shift to the calmest and kindest blue.
I know I’m meant to save myself,
but the honest truth,
is that with you,
I don’t have to.
So, come, my darling,
it is never too late
to begin our story,
our love,
over again.



I do not want simple seconds
or microscopic minutes with you.
I want seasons with you

I want to experience the Spring of our love,
when we bloom together far fuller than any rose
or snapdragon we can say we have seen.
When the young tendrils of our hearts and souls
begin to take root in our bones,
and the warmth and nourishment of our laughs together
like a fine, crisp mist
settles upon the budding leaves of our memories,
like fresh morning dew.

I want to experience the Summer of our love,
when the warmth and radiance of the sun,
one another,
is soaked into our broadened branches,
strengthening them,
creating shade against the cruelty of the world.
Where the brown of your chestnut eyes
meet the sky in my own,
and the roots we have taken such tender care of
grow stronger
and any fear of uproot has been quelled in the Light
of our love.

I want to experience the Autumn of our love,
where we can revel in the brilliant
golds, reds, yellows, and oranges,
as the fruits of our labor fall around us.
Our roots, though strong, will uplift each other,
as we dance among the falling leaves.
I want us to never forget to hold hands
as we walk together.
And as the blades of Fall whirl around us
we realize that two damaged people,
trying to heal each other,
is love.

I want to experience the Winter of our love,
where the frigid winds strip away our bark.
Where the snow settles upon our exposed branches,
and critters, in awe of the strength of our love,
make their homes inside our spirits.
While on the outside,
the knots and whorls of our branches may seem intimidating
only we know
that for every corkscrew,
every twist,
every turn,
is unique to our love
for they are our story.
And as Spring comes around again,
we step forward,
into the new year,
eager to grow new roots,
hardier bark,
thicker leaves,
for each and every season has given us more
and more
to love about each other.

I want seasons with you.



You would never know,
It took so many nights
Of restless sleep,
Of sleepless nights,
Of endless tears,
Of sundering heartache,
To realize that from you,
Silence was an answer, too.
Why, after all that has come between us,
Do you not afford me even a mote of truth?
Why would you rather just leave me in the dark?
If you rather we did not talk,
then tell me.
If you rather we did not see each other,
tell me.
Why would we go through all that we have,
and try to attempt a friendship,
if you really have no intention of doing so?
Is it really so hard to believe,
that for once in your beautiful life,
that someone see’s the ugly in you,
the parts you would hope not even God could see,
and find that they love you more for it?
I hope the ones that you deem worthy
Of being in your life,
Never turn and treat you how you treat me,
because I cannot think of a more dire fate,
than having people you love that make you feel alone.



It had been so long since I last heard it,

the crunch of the gravel as we pulled in the driveway.

I had never seen that walnut tree look so full of life!

I decided to take my shoes off, to once again feel the rough bark against my feet.

To my surprise, that old swing set still stood, gently rocking in the breeze.

I sat on it, feeling the rusted metal give, for I no longer weighed what I once did last I was on it.

As I swayed gently, the quiet creak of the chains reminded me of those warm Christmases.

You always knew how to bring people together, Gramma. No matter the distance, family always came.

Your laughter would find its way through the halls as you told your stories, drawing us nearer.

Your smile, the warmest. Your love, the kindest. I still try so hard to find you in me.

Of all your passions, none was more beautiful than your love for flowers. You always had a way with the earth, as if your love alone was enough to bring such simple seeds to splendor.

And of those flowers, none you loved more than the rose. So much grace, elegance, and vulnerability carried within those soft petals.

I remembered one day I came outside to find you tending to your garden. As I came closer, I noticed that your hands were bloodied, punctured by those wicked thorns. I cried, and asked how she could stand to get hurt by her roses

“Every rose worth smelling will have its thorns, sweetheart.” she said warmly.

Time passed by, and I saw you less and less. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see you, Gramma. Things were always so hard between families. Bitterness. Regret. Hate.

But then one day, the incurable came and took you. Your life, as beautiful and wonderful as any rose, was gone, wilted away like your petals. And I had never gotten to say good-bye.

Your funeral was the saddest moment I had ever known. Someone so pure, so kind, was gone. And in that moment, families that used to hate began to forgive. They began to love. Why is it that we cannot cherish what we love until it is gone?

This world is a little colder without you, but you have taught me how to ignite another’s soul.

This world is a little darker without you, but you have taught me how to be a beacon to others.

As I lifted myself from that rusted, old swing, a feeling of calm washed over me.

The gentle breeze came again, and on it, was your roses.

I truly regret never saying how much I loved you, Gramma. I’m sorry that I never knew how to put into words how much I missed your warmth.

The familiar scraping of gravel met my ears as I backed out of your driveway. How I longed to see you, waving good-bye to me with the hopes that I might once again visit.

But you were gone.

And all I saw,

were your roses.


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