Sometimes, I think about leaving my footprints in a house that sent me no invitation
Did they ever think the Paris Review could be overlooked and underpriced?
The tablecloths needed just one more wash, but they ran out of time before detergent
A locket that once held everything now in a stranger's hands, on a stranger's neck, holding nothing
The secrets whispered in the secret garden flew away with the swallows last summer, never to be swallowed again
Sometimes, I think about writing about a house that sent me no invitation
Did they ever think a stranger’s review could hold her hostage for three seasons?
I run the wash as I run out of softener, dancing in the kitchen, curling my ankles to avoid the melancholy on the floor
I lock the back door so everything stays the same
I dream of swinging in the secret garden in my mind, for one day, my linens, too, will be thrown on the floor by a visitor I was never inclined to meet
Alas, what attracts an alien more than a foreign object? The shiny ones were always beaming to me, too…
Sunday time flows differently
I’m not sure if it’s because it feels like the tiresome end of something or the fearful beginning of something else
There are quaint parts to it too,
not to be forgotten
The morning light, the splendor of the day, the inevitable night
24 hours sure, but never enough
There is something about only covering the bottom half of your window with café blinds and a tension rod
The architectural analogy that meets a half watered glass
Will I ever buy real curtains?
Do the pedestrians have a story about the girl in the window?
The room stays half complete that way
For tomorrow to decide if my car will sheepishly drive me to Target
I love you and I try
to say it, but I’m scared
Not of losing you, but of losing me
I’ve quite mastered that
Confessions of a Workaholic:
I sit. I stand.
I talk. I listen.
I sleep. I never sleep.
I answer. I question.
I design. I deconstruct.
I am content. I am never content.
I laugh. I cry.
I reason. I resist.
I feel like I am doing enough. I never feel like I am doing enough.
I try. I do.
She laughs.
She laughs as if her eyes are small pennies
that disappear into the mouth of a spiral wishing well.
She does this often --
it catches you like the optimistic flu.
She loves.
She loves everyone and hates no one.
She loves to give with grace and surprise your face.
She is the beaming sunflower that grows taller than us
both.
She listens.
She listens before she speaks —
a practice of many, a talent of few.
If you listen,
you'll notice she says more than she doesn't,
but only truth escapes her lips.
She lingers.
She lingers in the words of her letters.
Her blood is made of pencil lead that pumps every page.
She stretches her spine in the card catalog,
a collection of intentions to be brought to life.
She lives.
She lives in the honeysuckle hum of the rural hummingbird.
The whistle of the land sings her name.
All that she is
is all that she was –
unforgettable.
How do the dying leaves of fall look at the fresh spring bloomers beside them?
Do they say, “it’s getting harder,” or, “don’t forget about me…”?
Maybe they just grin and descend
It happens the same every season
Only now I wonder
The sun feels warmer when you’re in love
It’s true, I’m sitting in it as we speak
I’m criss-cross apple sauced in sweet, sweet love
Where the sun merely reflects
The hunger
The heat
The hope that each day feels this good
Hide + seek is a much more obvious game when you’re an adolescent
For after growing up,
people disappear
and you spend the rest of your life looking for yourself without them
The more I wear my shoes,
the easier I can slip them
on + off
my feet always fall asleep
when I sit on them,
the same way your arm hairs leave an impression on my cheek
on + off
I scratch the stubble on my brain
and it tastes like yours
Would you want to go to bed now?
What happens when the man is up?
We don’t yell- it’s quiet
A secret success
For you to realize the you is down
Only when it’s too late
A blanket on the window is necessary for my walls to be comfortable
Sometimes my bed misses them
only to fluff the ego-strung mountain of pillows
I wonder what it’s like to mattress ride the Great Pyramid of Giza
Even the bugs are curious about you
They remind me as I watch you from afar
They deliver my memo with their wings that I lack
In a world of our own
It’s impossible to describe the music from the candles
Something must make them dance…
The lighter fuels the darkness
and we sway to the flame
My hairbrush has a story to tell —
In the morning it stretches its dead hair tentacles through the mysterious lint forest
The oil waves are fine to snorkel in
At last, the blowfish puffs his spikes to comb a splendid scalp
The starfish puts on concerts at night
Do I look nice in this dress?
Do I look smart in this dress?
Do I look curious in this dress?
Do I look decadent in this dress?
Do I look tired in this dress?
Do I look wild in this dress?
Do I look lost in this dress?
Do I look flourishing in this dress?
There is a weighted pad on my shoulders every morning
Like birds, but heavy
There is no chirping
Just heavy
Coffee
Creamy
Airy
Breezy
Teatree
Carefree
Remind me…
I wash my face the same way I read The Bible —
dedicatedly at times and scarcely at others
My greatest fear is being unlovable
My greatest fear is myself