scraps of old writing i found the other day
how easily we laughed, with our breath fogging up the glass on the window before us, facing the neighbor's house; their rickety lawn mower by the fence with the wild rosebushes cascading over it. the hardwood floors were cold on our bare feet from the chill that comes with the nights, but still we danced and smiled, me in my silly white dress and you in your grey t-shirt, caught up in our youthful idealism. and then we looked out that window at the suburbia before us, the stars so obscured by city lights, and we remembered that our world was not the same as the world. and so we took our index fingers and we drew and drew in the fog from our breath on that window, putting the stars back in the sky and replacing the houses with fields of tulips and daisies, adding our own little characters enjoying sunny days, until nothing else existed or mattered. we fell asleep in that little world of ours, and woke up to find it out of sight, melted away by the hours. do you remember how sad that made me? and do you remember what you told me? you said that what we create never falls out of sight. it'll always be in our fingertips, you said, and you kissed mine and then placed them on my heart.
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It's the unknown that does it, swallowing your small, unidentifiable body which encloses a brain in worse shape than that which is primordial: It's the great Pangaea crumbling; reshaping.
You, little one, with the silly hat and the glasses which envelop your face. Your most romantic moments have all taken place under the trees, the giants you try so hard to save with your 100-pound mass. Teeth, never having had the satisfaction of carnal actions, are clenched; clenched so tight the flossy veins of your temples begin to strain against transluscent skin. Eyelids' poles attract and the force of magnetism makes surrounding skin crinkly.
All that you remember is that you used to be more.
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i am from the scents of pine and ocean; fighting gangs of reds and blues,
fields of golden poppies in the sun's rays.
barefeet, homeless, and robbery.
i am made of wet, soft bark and dew of redwoods, birds, and windchimes,
spanish tongues and chinatowns. Mission Santa Barbara, where the morning light makes flowers glow; where the monks once scurried.
I am of one million voices of different colors, creeds and cultures,
7 am light and air; a sunrise peaking above the trees -- where my heart sighs with contentment and my eyes well up with hope.