Tag: love

Categories
poetry

The Most Exquisite Kind of Sadness

The most exquisite kind of sadness

Does not exist.

It is an absence.

A void where nothing used to be

And where nothing will remain

It’s a chamber I feel, eating away at my heart

While it whispers in my ear

That there was nothing there to begin with

I can name the greatest time I felt this sadness

And it wasn’t when mourning something that used to exist

I did not feel those exquisite tears fall after funerals

Nor in between goodbyes and good lucks

The sadness came for something that never was

And never will be

A sadness written out in paragraphs and poetry

So long the Iliad looks like a pamphlet

And a comedy

I still feel this sadness sometimes

Because I still keep pursuing those memories

And you can’t remember something that wasn’t there

And you can’t feel what didn’t exist

And you can’t love when they didn’t exist

When he was never there

And today, I write about the most exquisite kind of sadness

Even though it’s an absence

***

It’s been almost two years since I’ve felt this emotion, but I can recall it like it was yesterday. It still plucks at my heartstrings sometimes. I think that memory built part of who I am today, and although I believe life would be easier without it, I think there was definitely something learned from that time.

Categories
poetry

Younger

I met my mother once

But younger

And he didn’t have her smile

Or maybe he did, but switched

He was taller than a tower

With eyes that melted in their sockets

And my heart.

He reminded me of all the songs she did

Three decades later

Funny how music doesn’t change

Or how people don’t change

“Low Man’s Lyric” still pounds in my head

As my mother lies down

And he lied away

I wanted to know how to fix him

And I still haven’t figured out my mother

I don’t think there’s fixing

Medication only goes so far

Therapy can be just as averse

He hated therapy

But I loved him so much

I saw a therapist to cope

I love my mother so much

I use faith to hope

I think sometimes that there are things my mother won’t ever tell me

And I know there are things he didn’t tell too

Sometimes I think those secrets are not for me

If I knew, I might break down

If I knew, I might just be like her

Or him

Or anyone who knew the weekly vitamin cartridges weren’t full of vitamins

And who constantly asked their dad why mom wasn’t getting up

Who saw shut doors

And silent tears

That screamed help me

Please help me

Or worse, nothing at all

I met a boy who reminded me of my mom

A boy who I cut contact with because he made me sad

I met a boy who I fell in love with

But at least my mom loves me back

I never saw that boy again

But I see my mom everyday

And every day I wonder about how I connected the two

And if I’ll ever learn enough to confirm.

***

I wrote this one morning after being awoken much too early. By what? I don’t remember. All I remember is the emotion that wrote this poem, and how I didn’t feel like myself for the rest of the day.

Categories
poetry

Little Love

I feel a strange little love for you

That I don’t quite understand

I feel a little odd when I talk to you

Yet I know exactly where we stand

I see a lot of people’s tears and cry

Because their hurt feels like mine

I think you carry more than you show

And you’ll tell me with time

I want to understand my heart

Like I do my head

I want to know why you have a piece

Yet bring back memories long dead

I know I love you unconventionally

Neither for sex or romance

But a great protective feeling in my heart

Tells me to take a chance

I want to hold you close and feel you cry

Because I can see it in your chest

I want to talk over tea and understand

What you think is best

But this is a difficult situation to be in

Because I’ve been it before

The goal is to not get too attached

Or it burns you to your core

But shit, I think you’ve piqued my interest

Because I feel a strange little love

That makes me want to cry and embrace you

But I still must wear my gloves

***

There’s an emotion I can’t describe that sits in my heart. It only comes out when I pass certain people, and this was my attempt at conveying it after talking with a dear friend of mine. I think it’s almost a nurturing love, like one feels for their child, but sometimes with complete strangers. Whatever it is, it almost feels like the full spectrum of human emotion compacted into a handful of seconds. I wouldn’t change that for the world.

Categories
Uncategorized

A Million Conversations

I have a million conversations

That never come to pass

I blame it on my cowardice

My excuse that life moves too fast

I have a million interactions

That will never come to fruition

Because I redirected my focus

To my hobbies or tuition

I have a million times I’ve held my tongue

And a million I’ve stopped my voice

I’ve always been so frustrated

And acted like I had no choice

And I’m not getting any braver

But every day my regret grows

I have a million thoughts running through my head

Yet only a handful I’ll ever show

So know that when I speak to you

And my words get jumbled or fall

I’ve got a million conversations to think of

And I can’t separate them all

***

I think about talking to people a lot. Perhaps it comes with just overthinking, I’m unsure. But I pass a lot of people, and I think about how so many people don’t believe they are loved, when people fall in love with strangers every day. I think about saying “I love you” to every stranger I’ve ever met sometimes because of it. However, I know that I couldn’t separate that conversation from the millions of others in my head.

Categories
poetry

The Monologue

I love you.

Maybe you don’t believe this. Maybe this is something you will overlook or fly past or scoff at but I don’t care because I absolutely adore you. Your hair your eyes your smile your laugh is so contagious that even thinking of it makes me smile and it is you who makes me grin! It is you who allows me to get up in the morning. You are the reason I pull back my covers you are the reason I sing! Poorly, but you still make me want to sing and dance and laugh because I love you. I love you so much that I want to thrust my arms out and enveloped the world. I want to take on the world and show everyone I’ve ever met your face so that they too may know true happiness. And yes, I can’t touch you. I can’t touch you because it makes my skin crawl. My own skin makes me crawl sometimes. I cannot rest my head against your shoulder, I cannot hug you tight and whisper all the reasons I love you into your ear, I cannot kiss your face. Hell, I can’t even hold your hand! But that is OK. That is OK because I will show you my love through this infinite, vast, endless sonnet of demote devotion. I will hold out my arms and bask in your warmth and let you know that you are the reason I am happy today. You are the reason I got up today. And today, you are the reason that I feel and I know that I am OK and not touching you is OK and my lack of want for societally shown physical intimacy is OK. And today, I love you.

***

Written in the wee small hours of the morning, high on lack of sleep and love for a dear friend. This is one of my favorite pieces, neither traditional poem nor short story, but a strange mix of both. I couldn’t think of a fitting title, so I just called it what it was: the monologue. One of my only platonic pieces, but one of my best I think.

Categories
poetry

Brown-Haired Tragedy

Brown eyed tragedy, meet brown haired girl

You both speak soft from the same world

Of pain and malice and hate and fight

Yet both paint stars in my black night

The latter is soft and kind and sweet

The former is often the best to greet

And you both share a place in the back of my mind

Asking me to join you, to leave all else behind

But I do not have your world in my view

And I know that I cannot join you

So you sit in my head and you cry in my heart

Reminding me of what the world does to tear us apart

So brown eyed tragedy meet brown haired girl

Both different parts of this crazy, sad world

***

A sad poem, I know, but also a continuation of another poem. To be fair, that poem is even sadder than this one, yet also has a bit of a bitter element. I met a girl awhile back who confessed things to me in the wee hours of the morning that I will never tell others, yet kindled a fire in me that has only kindled once before. It is dangerous, and if I leave it alone, it will extinguish. This poem marks the beginning and the end of its flickering.

Categories
short stories

Never Fall in Love

“You will be my last love.” I glanced over and laughed at the ridiculous statement. We’d been dating for little under three months, and I certainly think it was too early to declare any sort of eternal connection. “You mistake me. You will be my last love, even after we terminate.” Part of me is flattered by your words, yet another becomes concerned. What do you plan to do if I am your last love? If I am the last person who you kiss and hold and cherish? Where will your heart go while the rest of us have ours broken and mended and soaring? However, when I rest a hand on your shoulder, I see no pain in your eyes. You seem almost… content, as if this is an epiphany you’ve denied yourself for so long that you almost forgot it existed.

“What happens when your heart finds another, even if your head keeps the vow?” I ask. You throw your head back and laugh, but there is something bittersweet about the sound.

“It shan’t. I’ll lock myself in a cave or rewind my memories. Perhaps I’ll make myself so ugly that no one else could love me. Whatever I do, I will not have my heart broken again,” you explain. I glance at your scars. No, you are not beautiful in the traditional sense. I see no defined cheekbones, bright eyes, or shiny hair. However, I do see your intricate tattoos and your cropped hair, and I see the smiles that stretch from ear to ear and your strong hands. Although I may not see physical beauty, I see internal.

“Making yourself ugly won’t do anything,” I contradict.

“You mistake me again. Ugliness is found on both the inside and the outside,” you respond, and bitterness continues to lace your words. I chuckle, and it’s your turn to glance gaze incredulously at me.

“You can’t make yourself ugly, no more than the sun can stop shining or the birds stop singing. Beauty and ugliness, from within, are inherit. Even if we become hard or selfish or cruel, we still hold our nature in our hearts,” I comment. You stare at me, and then a small smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

“And that’s why you will be my last love,” you say, and the words seem even sadder than before.

I can’t remember what happened to you. One year later, we broke up because I moved to the U.K while you stayed in the States. Years passed and seasons changed as the people did. Some I spent alone, others with lovers and friends and family. Work kept me busy, but travel allowed me to meet people from everywhere. There were days where I saw movies that made me think of you and rainy nights where I could hear your voice. However, you were only a chapter in the story of my life, and I have many others.

I traveled back to the States for a road-trip one year. When I passed through Georgia, I thought I saw you sitting on a bench. In New York, I thought I saw you standing on the corner. In Washington D.C., you sat near the monument and stared into the water. It wasn’t until I made my way to Portland, Oregon that I truly saw you.

Blue

10/17/1962-12/4/2000

That seemed too damn young to me.

***

Consider my two weeks of absence a hiatus of sorts. I apologize for no notice, but my outside duties took up more of my time and resources than normal. I am very tentative about this story, because its plot isn’t definitive and it exists as little more than a word splurge. I will disclose that this story was based off a very real conversation, and one that I don’t think I’ll forget until my brain rots. Do tell me what you think.

Categories
poetry

The Way I Am

Sometimes I’m a trickster

Whose eyes are filled with glee

Sometimes I’m a beggar

Asking for anything to be

Sometimes your heart is mine

And sometimes I am yours

Sometimes I jump through windows

Because I can’t get through closed doors

Sometimes I’m so ugly I hate mirrors

Because they reflect my goblin face

Sometimes I just grimace at my reflection

Because I think I have no taste

I can carry the world on my shoulders

But one more person, and I might break

I shout random things that hurt others

Then cry for self-pity’s sake

Sometimes I want to sleep for days

Then get up only to live through one more

Sometimes I’m wealthy

And other times I’m poor

Sometimes I marry a murderer

And sometimes you’re my princess bride

Sometimes I create things

To help the others hide

I’m a girl to society

And a person to myself

I can break a wrist in seconds

But will always cry for help

I write words on my skin until the pen bleeds

Only to have them disappear tomorrow

Sometimes it hurts to breathe

Because my heart’s so full of sorrow

But I know that no matter what I am

Whether goblin god or tree

You’ll always smile

And stay beside me

***

Apologies and a bag of chips to all who noticed I didn’t post this Friday! My schedule has kept me busy and I haven’t gotten a good paragraph of writing for ages. This is an older poem, a more intense poem, but it still makes sense poem. Overall, it has a sweet message. I promise to get something out once I enter the eye of the hurricane that wasn’t written ages ago.

Categories
short stories

Opal Eyes

“You may not know me, but I know you. I know your smiles, your laughter, your tears, your anguish. I know every strand of hair that falls across your beautiful face, and I am jealous of every coat that’s ever kept you warm and every glove that’s touched your hand. I spend my mornings waking to the ghost of your voice from my dreams, and my nights recalling. My life is spent in your hands, and all I ask is that you do with me what you truly wish,” I whispered. The ripest tomatoes couldn’t rival the shade of red my face took upon my confession. You looked down from your throne and smiled, and it made my heart soar through my ignominious confession. A smile, just for me and me alone. When you slowly stood and approached, however, I shrunk back. I couldn’t fool myself, not truly. There wasn’t a creature on this world who tolerated goblins, and a goblin I was. Hesitantly, as my last peace offer, I held out the flower I picked from the gardener’s land. If he caught me with it, he would thrash me later. How loud I would scream all depended on if I could escape to a memory of true bliss or a memory of deepest sorrow. Your laugh surprised me, and I gasped when you plucked the marigold from my fingers. We were a wonderful contrast, you and I, with hands of finery and splendor and the softest skin brushing against knots and wrinkles and dried mud from the lake. It was your laugh that almost undid me, and a sob escaped my throat when you pressed the petals to your lips.

“Ah, my little love, how can you possibly lay such a precious life down at my feet, as if it is a gift to be discarded upon whim?” you asked, and a few tears trickled down my cheeks. They were lost in the folds and gnarls of my skin, yet your hand dispelled the few left. I held my breath as you cupped my face in your palms, the intoxicating scent of the marigold wafting around us. When your lips touched my forehead, I crumpled. You helped me up when I tried to grovel at your feet and wouldn’t hear a word of my apologies or sincerest thanks. As you bent over to look me in the eye, I felt the smile I kept buried beneath my heart’s surface for the first time in years. There was no one else in the kingdom with eyes like yours, white as opals and shining just as brilliantly. “Although I may never see your face, or your smile, or your laughter, I know them just as well as I do my own. I know every joke you tell, every song you’ve sung, every jest you’ve made in good fun. I know every time you’ve cried, every shout of rage, and every time you wished out loud you were something else, and I wouldn’t change any of it for the world.”

It was my first real hug. You embraced me tightly, kneeling before as if I were the ruler of our lands. I felt the marigold petals crushed against my neck, yet I didn’t care that they fell to the marble floors. I hugged you back just as fiercely, with tears spilling down my cheeks for a different reason than ever before. “I truly wish for you, and your companionship. That’s all I’ve ever wished for,” you whispered, and more tears dripped onto the floors. Our laughter echoed throughout the grand halls, like a new melody never before sung yet immediately treasured.

A monarch, a partner, a lover, and a friend. These nine words engraved into your tombstone do you no justice. As I sit near my pond, where I spent years sneering at my reflection and woefully scaring anyone who came near, I now guard your final resting place. Unfortunately, humans last much longer than goblins. However, I feel my time is near. Your body is gone, but I think you stayed with me in spirit. After all, how can one remember so much about their soulmate after they’ve already passed if they aren’t there? How can I still recall your laughter and your opal eyes? The sun begins to set overhead, casting her pink glow against the marigolds that bloom every summer around your grave. I pluck one and twirl its stem in my fingers, then rest against the grass near where your head should be. “You now know me, and I knew you. We spent years and years treasuring and nurturing and laughing and dancing. I am no longer jealous of your gloves because you held my hands as often as I wished, yet I still wish that I could’ve held them one last time. It is no matter, anyway. Soon enough, we’ll be together once more. Soon enough, my love.” The marigolds dropped from my fingers.

***

Ha! I did it! Take that, Father Time! I have an update, and a short story at that. Please enjoy this perfectly sad and fantastical tale about a goblin and their love. The best part about writing in the forbidden you-and-I perspective is the freedom of character. This is a product of maddeningly rattling of ideas towards the wee hours of the night, and I hope that whoever reads this enjoys its elaboration.

Categories
poetry

The Countdown

One step in

Two inches down

Three times I wished

To just let myself drown

Four lines written

Five lines said

Six people screaming

And emphasizing my dread

At seven the apathy sets in

At eight it takes its fill

Nine times I felt strong

Strong enough to kill

Ten ways I can say I love it

Nine times it heard it wrong

At eight, it heard it right

And now it’s long gone

Seven days of feeling empty

And six of missing you

Sometimes I hug my pillow

Just hoping to get through

Five more months of never touching

Four more weeks of wearing masks

Three more days until it resets

So maybe we can sit at a table for two

But that’s just one estimate

***

I have an obsession with number-based poetry, whether consecutively written or just dealing with math. Perhaps this explains my affinity for Harry Baker and simple melodies, because their numbers are always what I can count on. Plus, it combines the childlike yet methodical counting method with bitterness, much like Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. Ah, one hopes for the density of the population to decrease, both in numbers and minds. Perhaps this poem wouldn’t exist if such a thing occurred.