nova @nova-says - Tumblr Blog

my body feeds off of

gluttony.

off of others' hunger

to hold and be held

for a lifetime

of inherent longing.

i join hands with those

taunted by unavoidable instincts

to crave;

to suck on the sweetness of

a hand on a shoulder.

or a whisper of solidarity

in joined air.

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I remembered being a child, begging my parents to let me venture into the thunderstorm even though I had already donned my pajamas.

I would let myself be soaked by the downpour, the rain systematically falling in constant patterns against my arms and legs, as I ran in erratic circles around my home.

My long, dampened hair would lay in wet lines across my small back. It would be swept across my face, like tossed handfuls of paint against a plaster wall. I would allow the wind to remove it from where it fell into my eyes rather than having to swipe my wet palms across my chubby cheeks and smooth forehead.

Now I wanted to lay in the wet grass of my backyard and let the rain disturb me; let it cleanse me until I was damp and new and better.

I realized that it had been so long since I had truly stretched my legs, ran for the sake of running. Since I had bounded and leapt until my knees were tired and I opened my eyes, abandoning the illusion of freedom: that I had miles ahead of me to run, and that no one would ever have to see me do it.

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let me live in your stomach

after my limbs have been devoured by your teeth

and my eyes swallowed whole by your lips.

let me live where everything you have consumed lives,

and let my heart beat among their remains.

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and from my rotting body

I grow an olive tree;

fruits for you to pick from

for the eternity

after I am gone.

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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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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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