Everything falls under love...
Because It’s Not Valentine’s Day
The end of Spring brings new levels of excitement. I still haven’t figured out what to do about the newfound crush in the cubicle next to me. I’m not used to being the one who gives the chocolates away.
Homemade chocolates are better than the store-bought. Always the receiver’s heart that fabricates the illusion of sugary (sometimes chalky) goodness of the wrapped candies. The gift box, later abandoned in the trash, left some still unwrapped.
Summertime unburies yukatas from the bottom of the dresser. The creased folds hold the essence of forgotten summers ago. I bought chocolates during the festival, tasting what mine had lacked.
It is hard to say when I knew to add a touch of sincerity to every cup of cocoa. Walking in to work with Winter’s first snow at my heels, I gave my chocolates away.
The wrappers fell to the floor as he smiled.
Drifter
Questioning before jumping,
would leave no room for regret,
if I had planned to save us
from the trap that pulled us further away.
I imagine bare feet touching the sands
that have traveled against ocean currents
to take a rest here, like us,
taking refuge from strangers.
With unfamiliar air and food
surrounded by porcelain and bottle caps,
it is a private haven that draws only
heavy hearts to the bottom.
If it were not for my hand in yours,
the pulling apart would not be obvious,
like two magnets that finally agree
thus voiding the rest of what we’ve known.
Author's Note: This was a poem response to Daphne Loves Derby's "Pollen and Salt," and people's most complain was the imagery was too close to that of the original song. This final revision, obviously still has a lot of sand/beach/sea imagery, but I think the message is slightly different now. It sets a new tone than the song:) I think I really enjoy writing about heartache; it's easiest for me to feel it and then to write from it.
coda
Wayside weeds sweeten the 90-yard stretch
between my house and yours,
softening the texture of distance
like iced tea on a summer’s day.
You never let me win at chess
and you always finished my sentences,
you’d come over with a somber face
when your parents didn’t get home on time.
The loose floorboard on the second floor
stashes marbles that stare at us like saviors
who might release them to play once again;
We understood the commodity of faulty construction.
In the possible future, love may die.
The universe sends its black hole
to devour our porch swing on a single gulp.
Splinters scratch its throat, but it won’t stop
until existence ceases to matter.
al Coda
Author's Note: This was inspired by "Coda," an unaired episode/script for Gene Roddenberry's (the same guy who did Star Trek) "Andromeda." This was supposed to be Trance's episode explaining why the Abyss and the Sun's avatars were around, and I can't remember much of it anymore, but the idea of the ending of the world combined with the bittersweet ending of childhood.
Under Construction
Painters come daily,
yet their faces seem to change every day.
Last night, passer-by delinquents
broke the windows that were just installed.
The shattered pieces swept away the next morning,
while the remainder brag
about how they have survived time.
They are only 26 hours old.
Door frames are still empty
buildings are welcoming but hollow,
yet the painters continue coming,
patching cracked walls with
just a simple layer of paint
that will crack again someday.
Ambient Haze
Hitomi,
what is it like not seeing?
Can you catch a dropping pin?
Will the strawberry cake taste better to you?
Would the precise intonations of my voice
be heard even in whispers?
Is it possible to feel the air molecules beneath
your calloused finger tips?
Anata,
I see life stories
and write futures from them.
I sense security when you catch the pin
and run thread through for me.
Cake has always taste wonderful,
but your whispered questions
draw tears that evaporate
into the air molecules flowing
through my calloused finger tips.
Do you not see that you are my eyes?
The end of Spring brings new levels of excitement. I still haven’t figured out what to do about the newfound crush in the cubicle next to me. I’m not used to being the one who gives the chocolates away.
Homemade chocolates are better than the store-bought. Always the receiver’s heart that fabricates the illusion of sugary (sometimes chalky) goodness of the wrapped candies. The gift box, later abandoned in the trash, left some still unwrapped.
Summertime unburies yukatas from the bottom of the dresser. The creased folds hold the essence of forgotten summers ago. I bought chocolates during the festival, tasting what mine had lacked.
It is hard to say when I knew to add a touch of sincerity to every cup of cocoa. Walking in to work with Winter’s first snow at my heels, I gave my chocolates away.
The wrappers fell to the floor as he smiled.
Drifter
Questioning before jumping,
would leave no room for regret,
if I had planned to save us
from the trap that pulled us further away.
I imagine bare feet touching the sands
that have traveled against ocean currents
to take a rest here, like us,
taking refuge from strangers.
With unfamiliar air and food
surrounded by porcelain and bottle caps,
it is a private haven that draws only
heavy hearts to the bottom.
If it were not for my hand in yours,
the pulling apart would not be obvious,
like two magnets that finally agree
thus voiding the rest of what we’ve known.
Author's Note: This was a poem response to Daphne Loves Derby's "Pollen and Salt," and people's most complain was the imagery was too close to that of the original song. This final revision, obviously still has a lot of sand/beach/sea imagery, but I think the message is slightly different now. It sets a new tone than the song:) I think I really enjoy writing about heartache; it's easiest for me to feel it and then to write from it.
coda
Wayside weeds sweeten the 90-yard stretch
between my house and yours,
softening the texture of distance
like iced tea on a summer’s day.
You never let me win at chess
and you always finished my sentences,
you’d come over with a somber face
when your parents didn’t get home on time.
The loose floorboard on the second floor
stashes marbles that stare at us like saviors
who might release them to play once again;
We understood the commodity of faulty construction.
In the possible future, love may die.
The universe sends its black hole
to devour our porch swing on a single gulp.
Splinters scratch its throat, but it won’t stop
until existence ceases to matter.
al Coda
Author's Note: This was inspired by "Coda," an unaired episode/script for Gene Roddenberry's (the same guy who did Star Trek) "Andromeda." This was supposed to be Trance's episode explaining why the Abyss and the Sun's avatars were around, and I can't remember much of it anymore, but the idea of the ending of the world combined with the bittersweet ending of childhood.
Under Construction
Painters come daily,
yet their faces seem to change every day.
Last night, passer-by delinquents
broke the windows that were just installed.
The shattered pieces swept away the next morning,
while the remainder brag
about how they have survived time.
They are only 26 hours old.
Door frames are still empty
buildings are welcoming but hollow,
yet the painters continue coming,
patching cracked walls with
just a simple layer of paint
that will crack again someday.
Ambient Haze
Hitomi,
what is it like not seeing?
Can you catch a dropping pin?
Will the strawberry cake taste better to you?
Would the precise intonations of my voice
be heard even in whispers?
Is it possible to feel the air molecules beneath
your calloused finger tips?
Anata,
I see life stories
and write futures from them.
I sense security when you catch the pin
and run thread through for me.
Cake has always taste wonderful,
but your whispered questions
draw tears that evaporate
into the air molecules flowing
through my calloused finger tips.
Do you not see that you are my eyes?