In my memories you exist like
the sharp scent of an overblown rose
and the sting of thorns.
You tamed the tangled garden of my soul
but plucked
my buds
one
by
one.
Categories
Tag: writing
Categories
Deja Vu
Our lives are written on a thousand slips of paper jostled and drowned in the foaming waves of a tempest. We float on the bubbles, too light and insignificant to notice the storm underneath. But sometimes, when we sleep, our fingers grasp the inky depths of the future.
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Stardust
There are truths buried so deep within the Earth that time has washed away all traces.
We are left with only the memories that reside in the dust of our souls.
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Dreaming
Hand-stitched quilts and faded letters lay in the dusty boxes of my attic. The yellowed tape flakes when pulled open.
Fragmented memories flutter in the dust motes and cloud my mind like tangled wildflowers.
Your long fingers. Your knitting needle. Dried lavender. Rose gardens bereft with aphids.
The plastic smell of your favorite lawn chair.
Hair curlers and embroidered handkerchiefs.
You’re lost in time and space, but I have your nose and my daughter has your boisterous laugh, so somehow we found you, too.
And the blanket smells like lavender.
And your “L’s” look like mine.
Last night I talked to you in a dream.
Tonight your blanket lays on my bed because you were worried I was cold.
Categories
Stellify
She was water.
With hair as smooth as sand and skin as incandescent as mist, her waves were fierce and wild, her wrath cold, and her depths immense. But the treasures laid deep within her azure folds kept her chest filled with voyagers vying for her love.
Skin of diamonds, shroud of black, and hair as silver as the moon.
He was the night.
He loved his Goddess. Adorning her neck with a hundred constellations, he soothed her tempests with delicate consistency. In return, she drowned his worries and quenched his thirst.
When her waters are calm, and his stars are bright, the two become one.
And that is where heaven lay.
Categories
Liar
Work in Progress. 1950’s historical fantasy thriller.
Categories
Ticking
Time is neither backwards or forwards. It is not linear nor circular. It is at once a commodity and a construct, an innate sense of growth and experience and as fleeting as a hummingbird.
Time beats against the waves of youth, etching wrinkles like scars along our skin. We try to grasp it in filtered photographs and seven second clips filled with hashtags that only mar our memories and confuse our senses.
Time presses on. We float both forwards and backwards, inside out and upside down.
But we forget to simply exist.
Categories
Dryad
The past is a jumble of misplaced colors and sounds that I can no longer comprehend.
But, like a siren on the rocks, the memory beckons. You taste of bourbon and salt and the hard bruise of your kiss seems to linger on my lips.
Or maybe it’s chapstick.
The last time we touched it was snowing and you heated me from the inside-out. You made me run even though I’d broken my heel.
I’ve forgotten if you were a dream or a nightmare. Or maybe you stole my memories when you left.
Crumpled, and with no return address, our time together trickles back. A series of silent vignettes with no captions.
You lurk somewhere there, in the depths. Watching. Waiting. Ready to drag me under the moment I turn away from the sun.
Sometimes I prefer the dark.
Categories
Rose glasses
Time flows like a stream; meandering ripples that sparkle in the sunlight.
Prisms of memories float through my mind. Your smile. My grief. Your struggles. My voice.
They glint in shades of chartreuse, teal, and gold, landing on my eyelids like falling snowflakes
Perfect moments, tinged violet in nostalgia.
How will you remember me?
Categories
Doctorate
You wrapped me in cellophane promises.
Poured honeyed lies on my lips
Adorned me with rose scented thorns
And left me with nothing but a pink book of matches
As though I wasn’t smart enough to set the world on fire.
Hipstory 