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Somewhere between the movement of a hand and the idea to do so. Between where the sky shakes hands with the hazy edge of a landscape. Between when you lift a piece of cake with your fork and when you let it melt within your teeth. Between the waking and the opening of the eyes; uncaring if beyond your eyelids lies twilight or sunrise, because for a second, you live in a dark vagueness of ignorance.

It is in this space that we are truly real; that we are existing without influence.

It is here that I lay down to rest.

My mind floods from my skull, leaving a hollow bone of sensation. I feel what my fingertips feel, although I do not feel them.

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romantic

the pallet of blues and purples

adorning my arms and legs

far gone

except for the dull pressure beneath my feeble skin

a reminder

of the mistakes attributed to the loneliness

pounding and beating from inside my stomach

pushing

causing me to fall in any direction it pleases

leaving nothing but a

watercolor bruise

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with a black sharpie

I outlined my shadow on the wall

an imprint of teenagehood

forever immortalized

by the secret of youth

I desire to be an infinite echo in my ear

of who I could be

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depsidase

To have always depended is a privilege. Loneliness is less carried than it is a lack of flesh within one's shoulders. It is shaking bones and worried lungs, for although they breathe easy and well in isolation, it is others that gift them air, whether it be tossed carelessly from mouths or gently exhaled onto dry and cracked lips.

The human form is constructed to lean, to envelop, to rest. Heads upon shoulders, torso against hip, arm around spine, hand against skull. A jigsaw of trust, our ridges and edges curve, sharpen, and lay in flat lines against one another, from our birth created to rely.

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I was once three years old, and I knew everything that I needed to know. I knew that I loved books and my mom, that my favorite stuffed animal, Bunny, would never leave me, that the stars were pretty but the dark was scary, and that it was easy to get hurt but it was also easy to find people to help me blow out dandelions when my breath was not strong enough to release my grand wish into the ever-loving universe.

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Diluted is the fact that the true sorrow of our lives is that it is ending. We must bask in the sun of the finite infinity of love, for too soon we will no longer be acquainted with its prismatic contents, and must project the bold curtain of light to those who come after us, so that they may know that they too treck the great, bold, spiral of humanity.

Steadfast and alive, we laugh.

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I am taking a walk towards Jerusalem.

My feet are sore and tired

their calluses ruined by the tough soil

which welcomes my soles

gratefully

with each sordid step they take

returning

night after night

so that my eyes can see the blessed trees

and my ears hear the holy songs

of the birds

flying towards Jerusalem

coughing on the clouds.

I am walking towards Jerusalem

and I seem to take the poisoned path.

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A girl's true friends

are her constants and consistencies

who give her a portion of the infinity

which she is confronted with

with every shake and rattle

of each thunderous step she takes.

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And we all breathe in tandem. Sighing, deeply. Laughing and singing, the breath lives and beats between us all, compacting our palms together, giving us a place in the myriad of things.

Together, we sigh, and we smile, and the heavens hear us from where we silently scream the bredth of humanity.

All together, we breathe in. And out.

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My soul didn’t feel at home in these new sunsets. The clouds began to gaze upon me differently, and the trees no longer danced to the intonation of my consonants with their accustomed familiarity.

Maybe fate lay beyond the sun. Somewhere pure and perfect, draped on an ornate couch, while its fingers idly toy. And I was a speck of dusk swept into the plaything's path.

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Lakes jointed and stitched together by the same vast ocean, crashing and moaning under their shared longing and sorrows, and the tears of men from hundreds of hulls. They came from boats ailing from every edge of the colored blocks decorating the globes in the schoolhouse windows.

My harrows did not join the ocean with their brethren, but fell into my hands, for to memorialize the final meeting of our lips, or her hair falling in delicate, looping petals over her shoulders, or her long fingers, stiff and callused on my shoulders, deserved far more remembrance than a joined grave.

As the boat tilted and slid, I could only remember the feeling of my hands upon the dance of her waist, incessantly staggering to the music of a Saturday's sundown.

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It trickled and fell, grain compacting grain. It seemed to tumble slowly, and then all at once. Time passing in a never-ending pattern until its blue tinted interior reflected the handful of sand as if the top was full again, and I cried. Helplessly, endlessly, while the hourglass remained still and stubborn in its finality.

I looked up, and I was standing at the edge of all the life that I had lived. My childhood had run past me and left me stranded, tall, and undoubtedly grown. But, like the hourglass, it was sure and unforgiving. Suddenly, I could see above the counters. Couldn't everyone?

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True Lovers

A girl's true lovers are her best of friends;

Who dig to the center of the earth with unprotected hands,

sore and and chapped.

And dance,

falling off of the highest skies, unimaginable

even from beneath any of your pillows

after long nights and before early mornings,

and laugh all the while.

Joy beating and pounding

in unrestrained resonance

of souls.

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I used to watch the powerlines. They stretched thin and broadly in intricate patterns across the windows of the city. I would imagine myself, older, stronger, gliding across them and leaping between their threads in bounds and jumps, running up and down the streets of New York City, their roofs welcoming me with a laugh and a gentle palm on my shoulder. Weak electrical currents would toss me higher and higher until I fell back down; thin, black yarn catching me within its protective grasp.

At night, I would pretend that they were a wool blanket enfolding me in a plentiful warmth. Or, I would stretch my skinny arms and gnarled elbows upwards, as if they were a fire, and mutter half-hearted stories to myself when the sounds of the unsleeping city drifted through alleyways and cobblestone streets. The dreams of many would rattle and raucous in swaths of horse hooves and vague shouting and laughing and music. I knew only these lullabies of far-off friends. They would help me to ignore the heaps of dirt and muck slowly congregating beneath my back: dark, plentiful, and invasive.

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Summer was a concept eternally harbored between the girls’ languidly excited bodies. Even as the dark hours grew long and tiresome, and snow began to torment the fields and flowers, their sundress remained a constant apparel, repelling the thought of the coming ivory season. And when summer began to escape the chill’s unrelenting, sordid grasp upon the earth, it was as if nature began to accommodate the girls’ benign behavior. They were none-the-wiser of the intentions of the sun’s gullible appearance reflecting the unyielding decoration of freckles painted upon pale, porcelain faces by the hands of a delicate, experienced brush.

Rather they rejoiced simply at the warmth now blanketing their exposed skin as they allowed for their skirts to ride up upon their knees as they laughed and skipped and ran through the woods. They lazily welcomed the daylight’s fervor upon their backs as they rested their cheeks within the cage of their forearms as their hair fell as if a curtain, shielding their delicate eyes from the strength of the brightening sky.

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And at once the flowers bloomed, their bosoms pink and luscious with the water of warmth, and the sun hovered over the horizon waiting for an answer of which I did not give, and the smell of smoke overcame me from where they were burning down the trees. I left the next morning as the sun greeted me from where it yawned and stretched its arms from just beyond where my eyes could not quite see, but I knew it was coming.

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