Always you, and always water.
Sometimes there are too many, too much, too messy (what leads to an absence not an overflow).
Sometimes I love so deeply, it almost feels like hate in these hours, so fully that the line between co-incidental emotion and blood lines makes a sticky sticky mess (I keep going at it whole, keep going at it determined).
An oh god, it's worth it when it's good. Not just that word slipping off the tongue, but the deep kind, the guttural kind of good that resonates all through your insides down to the indescribable portion of physical self -- that kind of good.
And sometimes it is bad, worse even.
So many times when I say you are worth it, what I'm really saying is I'm worth it.
I want to say that there will be filled in spaces, but mostly I'm just tired these days (I make no promises).
It's just that time. That time where endings comes too quickly like your favorite song gone by and you have to press rewind to listen again and again --but still, still you always miss your favorite lines, your favorite chords. When the wind blows seemingly in all directions, when the hours go by fast like melting black and white sundaes in mirrored diner walls and soon it is midnight when once it was noon and you hardly know how you came to be here, alone. And also in the dark,
letting go.
mostly it is the unknown that I am so tangled up in, mostly it is the people I can never seem to forget, to forgive,
mostly it is the dream that I try to breathe back alive past reality.
I hold on tight to these childish brats, remembering how tightly was once not enough, how flesh was as much a barrier as the miles. How badly I wanted inside, how I felt alive and scared and so fucking brilliant for the first time since how many moons of regret. And dear god, how I remember denied love, lowered lids and my secret smiles at the insistence of others, who could breathe that scent right off my skin -- knew at first glance all that I tried to keep hidden. And here we are and well how quickly we can turn ugly.
(and also the first, the first tentative journey into rearranging borders. You, who made me believe in fairy tales, in purity, in strength for the weak, in happy endings even. And here where anger is sharp, where it is quick like the intake, quick like a reflex. Quick like the reality of never, knowing that I was too soon, we were too early, that perhaps it'll never be flesh again.)
It is not that now is not content, because now is more than beauty, now is so much more. It is bigger than these mountains, bigger than my hands can hold, bigger than ships and horizons and longing. But too, it is wondering if I will ever be able to fill its space, if I am good enough, if I am strong enough to stretch out and carry it all. When it gets to that space where we scream so loud that it is quiet, where we hold so hard that it is lonely, where I want to collapse full force only into you.
Because it is the new also, the new hearts that come and go with the seasons always flying past fingertips like so many missed petals on the breeze. But how to focus on the present when you are constantly lit up in the past, when even your future seems merely reflected onto a stray puddle, a small and circular mirror, a rain scene. So sweet, so lovely, so full until it's all just pavement under a hot hot sun,
and I suppose you can only live underwater for so long.
Sometimes I love so deeply, it almost feels like hate in these hours, so fully that the line between co-incidental emotion and blood lines makes a sticky sticky mess (I keep going at it whole, keep going at it determined).
An oh god, it's worth it when it's good. Not just that word slipping off the tongue, but the deep kind, the guttural kind of good that resonates all through your insides down to the indescribable portion of physical self -- that kind of good.
And sometimes it is bad, worse even.
So many times when I say you are worth it, what I'm really saying is I'm worth it.
I want to say that there will be filled in spaces, but mostly I'm just tired these days (I make no promises).
It's just that time. That time where endings comes too quickly like your favorite song gone by and you have to press rewind to listen again and again --but still, still you always miss your favorite lines, your favorite chords. When the wind blows seemingly in all directions, when the hours go by fast like melting black and white sundaes in mirrored diner walls and soon it is midnight when once it was noon and you hardly know how you came to be here, alone. And also in the dark,
letting go.
mostly it is the unknown that I am so tangled up in, mostly it is the people I can never seem to forget, to forgive,
mostly it is the dream that I try to breathe back alive past reality.
I hold on tight to these childish brats, remembering how tightly was once not enough, how flesh was as much a barrier as the miles. How badly I wanted inside, how I felt alive and scared and so fucking brilliant for the first time since how many moons of regret. And dear god, how I remember denied love, lowered lids and my secret smiles at the insistence of others, who could breathe that scent right off my skin -- knew at first glance all that I tried to keep hidden. And here we are and well how quickly we can turn ugly.
(and also the first, the first tentative journey into rearranging borders. You, who made me believe in fairy tales, in purity, in strength for the weak, in happy endings even. And here where anger is sharp, where it is quick like the intake, quick like a reflex. Quick like the reality of never, knowing that I was too soon, we were too early, that perhaps it'll never be flesh again.)
It is not that now is not content, because now is more than beauty, now is so much more. It is bigger than these mountains, bigger than my hands can hold, bigger than ships and horizons and longing. But too, it is wondering if I will ever be able to fill its space, if I am good enough, if I am strong enough to stretch out and carry it all. When it gets to that space where we scream so loud that it is quiet, where we hold so hard that it is lonely, where I want to collapse full force only into you.
Because it is the new also, the new hearts that come and go with the seasons always flying past fingertips like so many missed petals on the breeze. But how to focus on the present when you are constantly lit up in the past, when even your future seems merely reflected onto a stray puddle, a small and circular mirror, a rain scene. So sweet, so lovely, so full until it's all just pavement under a hot hot sun,
and I suppose you can only live underwater for so long.
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