(no subject)
phoenix.12.20.03
walking out into the street
this street
and my breath, warm and vulnerable
dances in a cloud, trembling
right before my eyes
before dissolving into the
bitter winter air
fading into apathetic oblivion
like the gray concrete
that the world
is drowning in.
this gray concrete
tells the story of our lives
of all we didn't say
and of all we did not do.
i have watched my breath
leave me, over and over
a piece of me gone with each release
rushing out to meet
people standing by me
only to find that
they, too, are busy exhaling
their words thoughts songs life
into the cold bitter air
and our exhaled givings never meet
but collide, crash, feeding off of
heat energy of collisison of one another
to sustain themselves
for a hopeless
three seconds more
before freezing into ice crystals
glimmers of hope in frozen time capsules
that fall to the pavement.
this black ice is
what we'd like to call home.
O black pavement,
thou art weak.
for i known you
to crack and crumble
at nature's slightest prosition
a verdant blade of grass cracking through
your false strength.
and this blade of grasss is
the forgiveness after knowledge
and this forgiveness after knowledge
is you.
rising out of the ashes
a thousand years later
to meet me
here
in the street
this street.
phoenix, we can tear
this concrete apart
and return it to its original state:
rocks on the seashore.
or
we can leave it
the way it is now.
phoenix, we can do anything.
i spend my days
trying to squeeze my life
into liquid movements
on a sheet of paper
learning how to not breathe
in a desperate attempt
to keep myself whole.
but i know that
when the word is sleeping
i sneak outside
and dance in the moonlight
sing wildsongs
throw stones
the grass under my feet.
and i know that
there is room for one person
beside me
and that person
is you.
and in the cold bitter air
our breaths shall mingle
become one
as i
inhale
you
and you
inhale
me
we have a thousand years
to dance together
and after that, another thousand.
phoenix, baby, we can do anything.
------
merry christmas, baby.
eva
walking out into the street
this street
and my breath, warm and vulnerable
dances in a cloud, trembling
right before my eyes
before dissolving into the
bitter winter air
fading into apathetic oblivion
like the gray concrete
that the world
is drowning in.
this gray concrete
tells the story of our lives
of all we didn't say
and of all we did not do.
i have watched my breath
leave me, over and over
a piece of me gone with each release
rushing out to meet
people standing by me
only to find that
they, too, are busy exhaling
their words thoughts songs life
into the cold bitter air
and our exhaled givings never meet
but collide, crash, feeding off of
heat energy of collisison of one another
to sustain themselves
for a hopeless
three seconds more
before freezing into ice crystals
glimmers of hope in frozen time capsules
that fall to the pavement.
this black ice is
what we'd like to call home.
O black pavement,
thou art weak.
for i known you
to crack and crumble
at nature's slightest prosition
a verdant blade of grass cracking through
your false strength.
and this blade of grasss is
the forgiveness after knowledge
and this forgiveness after knowledge
is you.
rising out of the ashes
a thousand years later
to meet me
here
in the street
this street.
phoenix, we can tear
this concrete apart
and return it to its original state:
rocks on the seashore.
or
we can leave it
the way it is now.
phoenix, we can do anything.
i spend my days
trying to squeeze my life
into liquid movements
on a sheet of paper
learning how to not breathe
in a desperate attempt
to keep myself whole.
but i know that
when the word is sleeping
i sneak outside
and dance in the moonlight
sing wildsongs
throw stones
the grass under my feet.
and i know that
there is room for one person
beside me
and that person
is you.
and in the cold bitter air
our breaths shall mingle
become one
as i
inhale
you
and you
inhale
me
we have a thousand years
to dance together
and after that, another thousand.
phoenix, baby, we can do anything.
------
merry christmas, baby.
eva