ljd

I write

[ljdwords]

The stars are bleeding into each other

They match each other perfectly in tone

Meandering closer now, they hover

But look, the moon stands stoic and alone

I call to her with soft, inviting words

But once my cries permeate outer space

There is no air to carry them to her

In such a vast vacuum, they dissipate

The moon is drifting too far from my side

Earth is doomed, she was our steadfast anchor

She’ll cast us into dark, she’ll change the tides

And so I desperately plea to her

Earth’s melody is gone, she’s out of tune

Something is wrong now that we’ve lost the moon

[ljdwords]

like the rings of an old tree

i saw you yesterday. it was cold out, one of those days where the wind steals the air straight from your lungs. you were underneath the dripping boughs of an evergreen laden with snow. i think you saw me before i saw you. i hope you saw the blank stare of a stranger on my face before it flickered with recognition, then it would prove that i’ve moved on. you’re taller than i remember, and you seem older––not old, just older. i’ve known you for too long. nights in the woods are my favorite memories of us, because it was too dark for us to be embarrassed by whatever stupid thing we did. think of how we’ve changed. what i would give to see inside your funny brain. you always seemed older, more mature than i. i wish i could prove my theory wrong. maybe it was just the biting cold of January that made you squinch your face or the memories of me that made you furrow your brow, but now you looked not just older, but old. the lines on your face––familiar laugh lines and creases from sweet smiles––seemed deeper...aged...like the rings of an old tree.

[ljdwords]

tuning

there’s a moment of silence—a bated breath before the lone ‘A’ sings across the hall. then chaos erupts. bows sliding across strings, pegs turning—each tone blending into the next smoothly but oh so dossonantly. the intervals blur and stutter, bouncing between instruments and soaring through the air. fingers flutter across bridges and scales swell. the tuning is endless; these instruments will ceaselessly jabber with each other in the purest, sweetest language. at long last the tones die out, a solitary shrill E lagging behind, wavering in the air alone. the conductor taps his baton—at this instance all is silent again.

[ljdwords]

the shittest unedited 5 minute poem about insomnia

when i tossed and turned for too long

with my eyes twitching, resisting orders to stay shut

when my will to waken was too strong

i gave up, allowed my eyes to flut-

ter open to greet the waiting night

am i filled with chagrin or delight

that my synapses’ din with all it’s might

weakened me so to wake?

I’ll be deprived of rest and blessed liveliness tomorrow day

i gaze out into darkness and see

a lifeless space looking back at me

it has no features, no distinction

i pause, face it, to simply blink and

stare at its faceless form

nothing adorns

its blackened self, it’s merely a heap

of boringness that puts me to sleep

[merulae]

“The French called this time of day ‘l’heure bleue.’ To the English it was ‘the gloaming.’ The very word ‘gloaming’ reverberates, echoes—the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour—carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows. During the blue nights you think the end of day will never come. As the blue nights draw to a close (and they will, and they do) you experience an actual chill, at the moment you first notice: the blue light is going, the days are already shortening, the summer is gone.”

— Joan Didion, Blue Nights

[ljdwords]

gloaming

on nights like these when dusk is deep and blue in sleepy haze i’ll find my voice and write the colors of the room mimic the hue of the sky on these hypnotizing nights

the hollow of safety that is my bed floats lightly fifteen feet above the ground the scattered pieces of my frantic head compose themselves while i am looking down

i dance among the skeletons of trees in the silent pause before 2 AM oh what a blurry mess my brain will be when i can hear the singing birds again

for at night when the whole world is at rest is when my head opens and my mind works the best

[ljdwords]

i n s o m n i a a a

my eyelids are anchors scraping against the sandy floor of deep dreamy depths

yet my brain leaps and splashes in a twisted drowning dance

purple bruises beneath my eyes will be evidence of my battle with consciousness

maybe coffee at 5 PM wasn’t a great idea

[ljdwords]

“I’m fine,” they repeat over and over, speaking in sleep until their confession lies in a note resting below their swaying shadow swaying like the slow dances in middle school; they seemed fine then. They were not.

[cmbynquotes]

[ljdwords]

holding someone else's hand is weird

everything is slightly...off

the distance your fingers spread to grasp another palm

the lack of sensation in the unfamiliar hand

and fingertips that dangle limply while the other embraces a new mate