Of the New Year

awake and alive

When I think of the new year,

I think of early morning walks

when the sun is just about

to send streamers of peach and delicate rose

across the sky

to celebrate the beginning of the day.

I think of how I will be awake and alive

to join in the gaieties,

how I will conduct an orchestra of songbirds

as they first begin to tell of each dawn–

the poetry of their whistles

stating their trust that it is always worth rejoicing

in a beginning.

When I think of the new year,

I think of saving memories,

of sealing them to pages of a book with glue,

of scratching down words so as to never forget,

of decorating the days with doodles and stickers.

I think of living life in a memorable way

and making sure those memories stick

and learning to be content with the small things

by proclaiming them noteworthy, too.


Photo by Binti Malu from Pexels

Mosaic

together

We fit together,

not like puzzle pieces,

not compensating for one another’s juts and grooves;

besides, we are each whole in our own rights.

Rather, we’re tiles;

we lie neatly beside each other just like we’re supposed to

with a little grout to fill any gaps,

grout that has been gingerly wiped from our faces with a careful hand,

so that together we can form a vibrant mosaic.


Photo by rotekirsche 20 from Pexels

It’s the Journey

a destination, a question

He spreads out a map between them on the table of the diner, then smooths it with a flat palm. He hovers his pointer finger of the map, moving it around in circles, the gestural equivalent of a filler word. Finally, he presses his finger onto the paper. A destination. He raises an eyebrow. A question.

Staring at his eyes rather than the map, she sips her black coffee, just as bitter as she is inside.

Where on this map was he a year ago, a month ago, a week ago? He was with her yesterday, but even then, his mind was far away.

His eyes intensify. The question has remained unanswered for too long.

She drops her gaze and looks at the paper for the first time. At the tip of his nail is a tiny town a few hours’ trek away, just off the highway–a place she had never once considered going.

She has never been much of a follower, and she’s never been much of a risk-taker either, preferring to forge her own path exactly where she is. The oxymoron of that has never been lost on her, but she likes it that way. He was always a wrench in that oxymoron, one that was usually at a far enough distance that she could ignore it.

But not right now. Not while he is right here.

He is going to that destination at the end of his pointer finger no matter what she does. She knows that. Among all the choices she has, making him stay is not one of them. She’ll have to choose something else, make a compromise that she doesn’t want to make.

She raises her head so that her eyes meet his again as she gives a forced smile and nods.


Photo by Negative Space from Pexels

Static

Stuck

We are

Unchanging
Immobile
Not dynamic
Fixed
Deadlocked
Not progressing
Unmoving
Stagnant
Stationary
Still
Stuck.

I raise my voice on the phone
To tell you,

And you say to me,
“I can’t hear you
Over the static.”




Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

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I’m So, So Sorry

My biggest flaw

I remember lying on Your bed, waiting for
You to come home from that walk that
You took because You needed
a break from my frustrating
inability to tell you what
I was feeling.

I did my best to muster up the courage to
say what had always been behind
my lips.

When You entered the room, I just
C R A C K E D.

Tears turned to rivers, rivers turned to oceans,
oceans threatened to drown me.
Because, even then, letting
it all spill out was not
cathartic.

My feelings were a porcupine quill, buried deep
under my skin. I tried to pull out the quill,
slowly, painfully. I made progress, but
I couldn’t get the quill out. I left a
third of it still down inside of
me, and now my skin was
inflamed and bloody
from the whole
ordeal.

I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. I wanted to
stop crying, but I didn’t. I wanted to
write these words out on Your
wall, but I didn’t.

Don’t You know that my thoughts are poems? That
they flow from me best with a pen and paper
or from a keyboard
or as a mural?

But of course You don’t because I’ve never opened
my mouth to say those words
to You.

I still keep my feelings underneath the surface. I’ve
always thought that it was just who I was. Until
You, I didn’t recognize that it is a flaw,
something that I need to let go of
in order to show trust and
vulnerability.

A relationship is a constant give and take, and I
need to give more of myself over for fairness’
sake and for my sake and more
importantly, for
Your sake.

I do promise that I’ll try harder next time,
but I know that it won’t be with You.






Photo by Adrianna Calvo from Pexels

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You Are

YOU are

you are an answer

you are a solid foundation
you are the turbulent sea, threatening to pull me under
you are a delicate butterfly wing
you are the ax used to chop down the sturdiest oak
you are a humble disciple
you are the queen of the land
you are a tear streaming down my cheek
you are the laugh bubbling from a baby’s lips
you are a strong, rhythmic pulse of a heartbeat
you are the silent stillness of a pine forest
you are an authority
you are the rule breaker
you are an empty, abandoned house
you are the chalice overflowing with wine

you are the question

you are





Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger

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