Whatever 4ever

"I guess everything is a risk when it comes down to it; take them, but be safe, I worry."

[pleochroicc]

A 1:12 of love is not a fair one.

Gift-giving is not your love language. That’s okay. It’s mine. It’s not one I prefer to be on the receiving end of, either, as I simply seek words of affirmation. I want to be showered in them. To be bathed in rivers of praise and drowned in the vastness of your vocabulary as the tide of your cadence luls me to comfort. I want to rest atop the limits of your speech while I hang on your every word like a lifeline. Why won’t you throw me a lifeline?

[pleochroicc]

I strike down each advance deftly, with ease of skill built upon a foundation of grueling practice. Each thought nearly breaks my guard, tricky and slimy and foul in intention. It oozes off the end of the sharp point on my weapon as my slices become more desperate. Teeth gritted, toes curled. Stay in place. Do not be pushed back. Once more, just once more. A hundred pasts blink slowly at me from behind, foreseeing the final blow.

[pleochroicc]

Upon Another Clock’s Ticking

Glass lenses forgotten inside a moonlit room, I squint through the dimness and your protective exterior to peer upon your eyes, shining as they are. If I were to step one step closer, would you stop me? If I were to allow my eyes to close a single time, would you disappear? If I were to call out, would I be met with silence? So I allow my eyes to settle over you, feeling the comfort and warmth and oneness, and I memorize as I feel the ache of my every muscle as I hold ever so still, so still. If I were to move it would shatter the air into fine crystals and your image would be utterly distorted—no. I cannot move through the thick fog created between us by the shine in our eyes, wrapping around my legs to ensure I stay in place. Were we somewhere else I could move, I could stride, I could run and leap and bound towards you... I gaze through the imperfect glass, settling for never moving another inch.

[pleochroicc]

The Gaps Between Our Fingers

These days I yearn like the tide of an ocean cut loose from the moon’s reproachful gaze, leaving for hours and hours and days and days and weeks and months and flitting sneakily in with the rough surf to grace the shore so tenderly, with so much yearning to be higher up past the sand I have ground fine in familiarity... to stretch till the limits of my curled fingers bask in an inch of sun-warmed sand on the bone-deep coldness lurking just under the surface. I reach and reach up and out with so much affirmation... yet there are no holds within my grasp, the action frivilous, wasted, — I sink back below the surface squarely under the currents beyond which my feeble strength can breach but oh, how the sunlight does dance and shimmer like a beacon of hope that I may one day caress its rays firmly and resolutely and weightlessly

[pleochroicc]

A Feeling in a Setting

Coffee house, smell of espresso permeating the air, crystal close-ups printed on metal hanging on the wall. Iced orange mocha, canary yellow straw, 74 degree second day of fall. Farmers market around the corner, slight breeze and gentle and separate company. Strawberry jam and square glasses. Decorations from a past celebration, two men I love, one passionately, one fondly. Soft smiles across the café. Crossed legged in a booth, earphones in without music on. Contented.

[pleochroicc]

[strong-but-breakable-deactivate]

I never wanted something safe I wanted something of a storm With raging feelings and hands that can’t keep off each other I never wanted quite nights talking about our favorite movies I wanted spontaneous visits and our bodies intertwined. I didn’t want somber apologies I wanted you to make sure I treated you right I wanted you to fight for me, I never wanted you to leave me behind I needed something that made my insides combust with what felt like a universe exploding in me

I needed: Carol Shlyakhova(strong-but-breakable)

[oliviacirce]

After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, Please come to the gate immediately. Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she Did this. I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly. Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick, Sho bit se-wee? The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used— She stopped crying. She thought our flight had been canceled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late, Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him. We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and Would ride next to her—Southwest. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and Found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours. She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering Questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag— And was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California, The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies. And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers— Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too. And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands— Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere. And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, This is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped —has seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too. This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.

Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be.  (via oliviacirce)

When I lose hope in the world, I remember this poem.

(via bookoisseur)

I’m really glad I read that.

(via selfesteampunk)

[ipoetried]

They say in a collision that there are three areas of impact: First, the vehicle with the object, followed by your body with the vehicle, and, finally, your internal organs with your body. And every time I heard this, I always thought that I was too smart for that, that I knew better than that, that I would always be careful, that I would always look out for myself. But now, it makes sense, how a heart can smash so quickly, when we went from 100 to 0 just like that. K.P.K

Just Like That by k.p.k

[pleochroicc]

(via towritepoems)

[pleochroicc]

The first thing I noticed about you was your right hand around a red cup. I’d never thought of a hand as something I could be attracted to. But, boy, your fingers changed my mind.

Who knew they would look as nice on my waist? Well, I did, actually. I knew it when I saw how far they wrapped around the cup.

(You held it carelessly.)

Long fingers were suddenly added to my list; “Things Boys Need to Have to Be Worthy.” You were worthy, and I wanted those fingers. Now. Tonight. Right this second.

(It didn’t take long for you to be on the same page.)

Soon you were fumbling to feel my skin. All of my skin. I didn’t mind. Your lips wanted it, too, and you tasted like alcohol. I didn’t mind that, either. So did mine.

Honestly, I don’t remember much. I think you traced parts of my skin that no other boy has traced, and I think I liked it.

But I don’t like that you held my waist as carelessly as that red cup. Did you even think twice about the girl waiting for you at home? I hope you feel bad.

(I won’t.)

[pleochroicc]

[pleochroicc]

Antithesis.

If you were to ask me what we were,

(Which you wouldn't, because

You don't think about me anymore)

Then I would tell you that

We were

A literary term.

(Made up by the ancient Greeks,

Along with our political system

Which we tend to disagree on)

And you, with your 

College prep class, 

Would ask me which one, 

Because you only know a

Handful.

(And you don't think 

We would make a good metaphor.)

And I would say:

Well,

We were an antithesis.

(Then you would ask me

What that meant,

But you wouldn't ask aloud because

You are far too prideful;

It's alright because

I could always read your eyes)

Which is to say, 

We were opposites

Introduced in the same sentence,

The same second,

And since we were placed next to each other

In that sentence,

That second, 

We clicked. 

(I don't say that 

We didn't work out, 

Because someone went back

And changed the sentence

So that I wasn't in it anymore)

[pleochroicc]

[strawberryswamp]