Luck In Extremes

He's been in bed for almost fourteen hours straight

He must be tired. Or hungover. Or both
And the girl to my left, blue string bikini hanging from her bones
Is starving herself. Of this I know
Soy milk light perched on the breakfast table in front of her
And I wonder if she has been up for hours
Working on the removal of her non-existant fat
Being on vacation would not change a routine of that
I remember the days I was exactly the same
When an apple's core was my daily intake
And ironic as here I sit sawing away
At my morning apple with a knife
Sipping black coffee while I pretend
To feel content and happy within this body
And I've come so far since the days I'd stay in bed
For fourteen hours or more
Unable to face the day for fear of what would come
Or too the days when staying awake was a drug
And living off too little let me live my life numb
Extreme to extreme
Extreme the key to being me
But learning to live in between extremes
Found me the answer to be free
So this morning I watched
The glorious sun wake and rise
To welcome another day
Perfect along the Caribbean coastline
And as I submerged myself under the crystal water tides
I took a moment to breathe in the calm and heavenly bliss
Thinking to myself how life has a way of falling into place
And I count myself extremely lucky for ending up like this

Besos

I could be with him this week
Just this one
If only it wouldn't play on his mind
When all is said and done
Paradise deserves romance
Of the most beautiful kind
Here in the evenings of darkness
Light in each other we would find
Our Mexican dreams
Contained within Jasmine walls
White linen sheets
Listening only to the sea's calls
It would not be the same
But it would be a kind of nice
A week to remember
Before we retreat again into the skies
A time for us to treasure
All that once was
Stare into each other
And love again just because

8.2.12

He was peering across both laptops at her. Eyes as piercing and wired as always. "Am I one hundred percent convinced? I'm one percent convinced that it is not a good idea."

A moment of silence and slight confusion on her behalf settled momentarily over the table. What did that even mean? The wine had started to float to her head and she was feeling giddy and girly for unexplainable reasons. Although the words escaping his mouth held no comedic value and her understanding of what he was saying to her happened to stand at about "one percent", she found herself smiling. Perhaps she was smiling because she knew him so well. Or maybe she was smiling because she was finally seeing the light in all of the clutter. That famously discussed light at the end of the tunnel - maybe it did indeed exist. Such humor she managed to find in this moment that held such a muddled mix of night and day over a tabletop and two glasses of rose.

The sky was grey with rolling clouds and the overhanging doom of a much needed summer thunderstorm that would blow over and shower the sweltering city with tears before clearing for another beautiful day of sunshine lingered above them. It was getting dark. His face was lit only by the dim light of his laptop screen staring back at him. She looked at him intently while trying to disect and understand his face. Every inch of it. The way it flinched, the way it stayed completely still and the way she had known it and not known it at all. She studied the thick brown lines of hair that made up his eyebrows and their movements while wondering what they meant. They were straight and focussed as she watched them while she wrote. He glanced up, eyes shuffling towards the large lady two tables across wearing florals and a floaty blue dress. She wondered what he was thinking as the straight lines of his thick brows turned into pointy diagonal arrows to match perfectly the biting disapproval of his eyes and their gaze.

Looking back across the table, he licked his lips, then with tongue resting on his gappy teeth mocked the habits she had that he knew so well. "Chin up" he had said earlier that day, the daily advice and apparent words of wisdom for a girl who knew how to "chin up" all too well. He gave a slight nod - approving of her in some way and she wondered why she even cared at all.

He glanced over again to the plump lady two tables across. Lady Lord of Floral and Blue could tell he was listening to her conversation and judging it, as judgement was a trait he wore so well. But who was he for her to care for his judgement? With a sigh and pause from her typing, she longed to be in the shoes of the lady in blue or anyone else who would not cave in the presence of this piercing man's stare.

- b.o.s.w

Gaining

Find a way to use the memories of pain
As your gain
Because it is the experiences we have in life
That teach us our most valuable lessons
And you
And you
And you
Taught me some
While it is I
Who taught others to you

A Weekend Regret

"I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me, as I sat silently on the bed owned by a man I'd never met but heard thousands of stories about. His life surrounds me - every inch of him. His mind, his art, his creations, they are alive and breathing within these walls. And yet there are elements of the dead creeping and roaming, silently with a noiseless presence that is urging me into a state of numbed "pensiveness". There are remains of what once was hung before me, in the style of a gallery grand, where everyone will come. Am I invited to the party? Or am I merely the eyes that watch it all come together?

There's so much silence here. It reminds me of home. Perhaps the silence is bringing the quiet out in me. It's as though this calm has created an uncertain awareness in me. An uneasy feeling. But why? I sleep next to a soul I adore, walk hand-in-hand with a man I love. And yet, when asked from this same man, whom I cherish so dearly, what is wrong, my words are gone and I feel nothing but empty. Incomplete. Dead. There is everything here and yet there is nothing. There are birds. I hear them calling. Somewhere out in those trees upon trees. Calling to each other. Or perhaps they're calling to me. What if those little singing birds are attempting to give me all the answers I have ever yearned to find. Wouldn't that be nice. And yet not for I do not understand these little bird's songs.

The time drags on. The moments of quiet creating a messy noise in my mind. Blinding my sight and sucking out any energy I had left. I don't want to go on the roof. Nor in the pool. Nor in the outdoor shower. Oh how I disappoint you. I don't want to eat anymore pasta, even though secretly I do. I don't want anymore wine, or beer, or anything like it that will produce only more pounds of empty flesh that nestle into my body as their effects seep into my core,  tormenting me with their comfort and ease. I don't want to wear any clothes, and yet the idea of being bare, breathing only in skin is enough to stir the panic inside me. The haunting I have learned to keep at bay."

I had love and bliss in the palm of my hand and I let a negative force overcome me - with regret I read this back and scoff at the beauty I ruined in your eyes and our time. 

Cowboy Parade

I am not the one

The sort

To parade into the party

Or be paraded by

Gowned in a midnight blue dress

Cowboy attire

Balanced on my head

With red lips to match

I will not be the kind

To follow you for years

As they float by

Waiting again

For the taste 

Of your lips

The ones I've known 

Over and over again

If what we have

Is real and true

You'll be the one

In the end I still know

Who I'll find standing

Waiting for me 

Just as the cowboy parade
Waited for you

Dreaming Of Reality

Maybe the dream was actually more of a reality than either one of us really knew. Or perhaps what we thought to be a dream was actually a nightmare and reality is what felt so recently like dreaming.

A Week In Mexico

I spent a week in Mexico
Lazing on the whitest of white sands
Front row seats
Alongside the raisin
Skeletor
I ate too much guacamole
Put back on the weight
I'd worked so hard
To put off - but I was happy
Beer belly
We spent a week in Mexico
Dreaming as we said we always would
You told me
"It'll be new, it'll be fun, it'll be better"
And that is exactly what it was

19D

19D's breath smells worse than yours ever could
Despite what your Daddy may have told you
And I never ever did mind
Kissing you in the mornings

Finger's Touch Away

My fingers want to touch him
But only because it's him they know

Where something's lost, something new is found.

"Why are you writing on pieces of loose paper like that?" - good question I wonder to myself as I find a way to brush off his annoyingly and rightfully inquisitive observation.

"This diary has pretty paper. I like to write it messy first and once I'm happy with it, I can re-write it here. On this pretty paper." I'm not sure my answer was entirely convincing although it's not as though the question was relevant enough for him to fly into a raging debate over either. However, it turns out my uncontrollable need to maintain handwriting perfection holds potential for absolute annihilation resulting in complete self destruction and discombobulation.  Meaning - loose paper gets lost. More easily than one would imagine and this in my world, is cause for much agony.

A few days later, at home, back from the most heavenly trip of my entire life time and I'm suddenly faced with the realization that the pages and pages of heartfelt - albeit horribly scribbled - words looped together in a script to describe my life and the feelings circulating within my being are gone. Gone. G-o-n-e. Not the kind of gone where one is hurled momentarily into a rage of misjudged panic only to find minutes later that what was "gone" was in fact just "hiding" in the outside pocket of their bag where they had five minutes earlier looked, and clearly overseen. No no. The kind of "gone" where one has searched insides AND outsides of bags, the bags inside the bags and even inside pockets of the tightest jeans that clearly would never fit wads of A4 sized paper, hoping to stumble upon a miracle or the proof that they do really happen. The kind of gone where after an hour of searching and false hope you are forced to sit quietly on the end of your bed, head in hands and whisper to no one in particular "no.. no - this isn't happening to me... no".

Yes it is. And it's gone. There's a reason you can never write something out twice, no matter how great your memory is. It'll always be slightly different, either in tone, or description or lack of connection with the moment.

I don't remember everything I was trying to say in those pages and pages of dribbled handwriting that never made it to the nice paper that is bound inside the beautiful leather journal my brother gave me. Nor do I remember how I felt while writing all I lost.  Who knows if I'll ever venture inside myself enough again to fathom even an attempt at reproducing what in this moment I grieve or if I'll simply let it fly into the abyss along with so many other things I am and have been mourning as of late.

I didn't come back from Mexico with the words I left New York City feeling. Though maybe that represents the ideas I returned home holding onto. When something is lost, there seems to be the potential for something new to be found.

And maybe it was.

Before Tomorrow

Rolling tunnels
Of barreling foam
White fluffy clouds
On sea's surface they perch
Tumbling and crashing down
Over a cluttered water field
Of busy bronzed bodies
Coo's, squeals and laughter
Enveloping the air
And the life guard blows his whistle
Loudly
From high up on his chair
Boss of the beach
Under red and white shade
Summer days
I'm caught in a summer daze
As the burning sun rises
And kisses the bright blue sky
Changing images and shifting shadows
We watch this scene play out
In all different lights
Just as we do life
Figures packed in a row
Like sardines in a can
By afternoon
Disappearing into life's eight
In silence we sit
And we are calm
Just one more two
Amongst the many we wait
To rest our heads
Along with the sun
As it goes to sleep
Behind the earth
Before tomorrow comes
And again so do we
And we will

Failed Judgement

I had never met someone with such great potential yet who was so eternally disappointing.

Rotten

Nothing about you appeals to me anymore
Your face is hard
Bitter and tainted with lies
Your mood is always somber
You look older than you are
And every inch of you is dying
If not dead already
I'm surprised you've miraculously
Made it this far
And your corpse walks
An empty shell
Searching for a purpose
In this life
Wallowing
In your own filth
Stew in it
Like the old and dirty
Piece of meat that you are
Until you rot
And the stench is so foul
That you disgust yourself
Just as you've disgusted
So many others
Who have come and gone
From your life
In times before
And if you return
To those with the illness
Matched by your own
But enough to ignore
Then I wish you luck
For the insanity that you share
Will eat you both up
In
  the
    end
Until that day
I can safely say
Your story is grand
Garnished with the most
Putrid of tastes
Blanketing you
From anything more
Than all you've ever known
Or will
And it's no ones fault
But your
        very
          own

Fleeting Irrelevance

They're fleeting
My words
In and out
Like breaths
Natural
Understated
Sometimes
Exaggerated
Always heartfelt
Honest
And as past
As they once were present
Don't read too much
Into the words I own
Speak and leak
And pour from my soul
Tomorrow will be different
Perhaps they wont exist at all
Words
Just words
My words
Irrelevant
Fleeting
Words

Losing Home

It's the smell that filters through my nose

Every time I open the door to enter

That I'll miss most

The scent of being home

Of looking to see if you are too

It's the moments and days you're there

Resting your head on the bed

Waiting for my day to end

So our night can commence 

Walking away, the memories will ache

With a hole in my chest

Where you belonged

I found a home

Within your soul

Only you are the one now gone

And I'm left resting my head alone

Waiting for you - knowing that home 

Isn't here anymore

Ringed Fingers

I’ve sat here so many times with you before

Looked across the table

Mirroring you

Those eyes

Intense as they come

Some days bright

Other days none

I had no need, no desire

To look any further than you

Not up

Nor down

Or from side to side

Missing things

Left and right

Beautiful things

Interesting

Kind

Things my life would be better

Had I seen

With my eyes

Opened

Instead of shut

But inside my bubble

I stayed

Blinded by your games

And the things in you

I thought I saw

Lover’s problems

The idea I had

That I could trust

With normal skies clouding

I was lost in rolling tides

Of butterflies

Sleepless nights

And soft fingers touch

On skin

Mine

Yours

Ours

The fingers of rings

Rings that got lost

Are now dressing fingers

I type you this on

Time to take them back

Gather my things

And continue to ride

Rollercoaster eyes

You Should Know

I was crazy happy with you

All those times ago

Rolling in fields

Of concrete tombs

As the sun set

Behind the sea

An ocean of open arms

Giving to us

These moments to hold

In place and time

In frames

And minds

Of memories

Yours and mine

Waves crashing over

One another

As we did

Over sheets

That wrapped

Temporary linen

And nine candles

Lighting us silently

Lovingly

Giving ourselves

To one another

Like the tide

Gives itself to the sea

Until dawn

You gave yourself

To me

And you should know
That you made me

Complete

Black Moth

Black moth
Wears sooted wings
A resistant residue
Of powdered coal
Envelopes your soul
Trodden upon
Turned cold
Where did you go
Will you fly again
Up high in the sky
Mediocre fair
Without wheel of ferris
Candy flossed
A pink you don't know
Or remember
Ever tasting
Shut out
A colorful world
And wings that sing
As dancers do on toes
Kaleidoscope dreams
Moving like the salted sand
Beneath my feet
Smoothly
Hushing
Summer breeze
Unlike winter's breath
With a slow and steady murder
At the chance
Of Autumn's arms
Cradling snug
Around this frame
Tiny. Petite
All still now
Settle the dust
And hand pain
A different hand to hold
Fall in love under trees
Where the butterflies roam
Bound and buried in tar
Black moth you wont do
Don't drape your black cape
Around my wings too

Again, Goodbye.

Vicious

Beastly

Yet kind

In your eyes

Behind the lines

Drafting tales

To tell over and over

Again

Harsh reality

Sinking deeper in

To the trap

We found ourselves 

Hiding behind

Captured

Our hearts

And more moments in time

Stopping, stopped

All the air lost

Sipping

Eyes wise

And wide

Over cups

Of chamomile tea

Followed ecstasy

Dreams of a life

Mexican delights

Everything wanted

The answers

Left seeking

We’d sought

And the chance

In us to find

What could be

Blissful and kind

Turned to lies

And fell apart

In the blink

Of my eye

And so begins

Again

Goodbye