I’m a heavy ball of yarn: unravel me and you’ll find nothing special, just
The potential to make something beautiful out of me.
Peer into the mist, you will see a million miracles
I’m a heavy ball of yarn: unravel me and you’ll find nothing special, just
The potential to make something beautiful out of me.
Leaving felt like sending my heart a drunken text: a fuck-it-all that was uncomfortable in the wake, as naked as raindrops trickling along skin when he dropped me and my broken umbrella by the doorstep.
Footprints on the mat, and words so soft they dribbled into socks, and slipped through my soles like echoes.
I heard them resonate: while ripples widen, circling their predecessors, his letters shrank and when I tried to catch each escaped breath, I could only hear my own ears beating red and black: the aftermath of storms in sunset, a beautiful kind of ache.
The ocean is soft, I’d never noticed before. The waves crash, the tides claw back, the seagulls shriek, but the ocean is soft
The engine of the last car rumbles into silence, and I’m left with my own footprints, and his next to mines.
The waves are breathing, steady then erratic, a little like the hearts that lean in then apart.
Shadows touch each other, the sun does not die but becomes the moon – round and beaming, a light that is shy, alight
Your fingers cradle, it’s forgotten how to loosen when your fingers lace each other, knit into each other
knuckle on knuckle, the ocean’s soft
the only sounds come from your own chest, and his.
The ocean is breathing
the ocean is breathing
the ocean is breaking.
i think of embers burnt in ocean’s flame
till it blazed the spent wood back to life;
and the songs, drowned by centuries, crawling
its body back to surface, brought its fingers through
the ships of shore till they broke their
strings of safety and dissipated, as the wind does.
i think of hull colliding hull till they grew to
love the other’s broken heart, till the winds that
carried souls breathed a new beginning and
the night that sunk ahead whistled day apart
and dark alight. there’s a melody to the way the
sea of dreams wavers, inhales, lets its fantasies undone
and there’s a way he folds, unfolds the waves till
every lapse’s examined, embraced, caught
in the clasp between his arm; till he loves
unrestrained. there’s a slowness in the way
he holds my eyes to silence and my mind to peace, like
there’s nothing to be said but this.
Sorry I haven’t been posting much! But here’s a new poem – my form of procrastination 🙂
***
Sometimes you carry this confidence in your eyes
and you don’t even notice the way
it unravels shadows and opens up the clouds.
Sometimes you let slip your clumsy smile
and you don’t even notice the way
it drowns their lungs and brings their hearts to shore.
Yet often
you think it’s overconfidence to wear yourself as glasses,
to walk around in skin that feels like yours
because this skin is thin and breakable
Often,
you hide yourself in stutters and apologies
that spring from your tongue so often
one mistook it for your breath.
Often,
you tell others you know nothing,
and believe it.
But never do you whisper
you’re not worth it.
you say that nothing has changed, then why do I feel as though everything has? you no longer laugh at the jokes that once made you laugh, you no longer answer questions that you would have once carefully contemplated, you no longer spend the time telling detailed recounts the way you once would have. it is like we are two pieces of driftwood moving towards different horizons, no matter how hard we try to hold onto the other. why does something once so infinite now feel like it has an end?
I like to read stories, and in stories, the ending always signals to a maturity in the characters, a change that stems from the lessons they have learnt throughout the novel. they have a new sense of determination, a new sense of purpose, a new sense of what it means to be themselves. yet I feel more lost than ever. I can’t seem to find my way back. I can’t seem to find my way home. when home didn’t feel like home, you were my home. I never thought the day would come when I wondered: if you didn’t feel like home, then who would?
I don’t have any answers, only questions. and I’m afraid to ask any of the questions because I’m afraid I already know the answers to them. but maybe it is good to be afraid, maybe fear means that I still have something to lose. the battle isn’t lost yet. maybe we are only at the climax of the plot, and maybe by the resolution I will finally be able to admit that winning is not returning to the beginning where everything was familiar, it is arriving at a new beginning where nothing is recognisable yet somehow you still find the courage to move on anyway.
dig your emptiness in
and let the soils of temporary happiness fall
The largest kind of person is most paper thin. You worship their shadows only to realise they are the shadow themselves.
They say that you are the night, cold and born to die of light, but you’re smiling and there’s a swallow in your cheek and a shadow on your chin, and I realise that they don’t understand. They will never understand how you don’t have to be the warmth to warm me, how you don’t have to be the sun to show me an entire world, how you the starless sky are more beautiful than the taste of fireworks.