You show up when walking through the door is too hard for me to do
That perfect cup of coffee that you always bring me, means more to me than you mean it to.
You hold all my threads when they trail on the floor. You won’t let me fall, even if at times you’re the one who is unsure.
It’s like you don’t know that you’re all the parts of life that I’ve been looking for. Wildly free, unafraid of the darkest parts of me, you don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t seem to know, you’re all of the good that people wish to be.
Any time ours yells shake the walls and our pride quakes in our throats, you never let me down, call me names, no battering rams in our home.
You want to give me your name, solidify this life that we have made. I don’t remember who I was before your hands tangled in my hair, cupped my face.
I don’t remember who she used to be or how she faired. I don’t know how I felt alive when you were always out there, crossing my path while the Moon sat back and laughed.
I don’t know me without you. I wouldn’t ever want to.
Now that I’ve found you in this lifetime I know I’ll find you in the next, like I found you in the last. The Universe is at ease knowing we will continue to repeat the past.
The ore inside you compounds day after day. It weighs on your caves and builds in your brains.
Until you have to bring in dynamite. You bring in that sweet acrid sent. You cut a short fuse, you light up, explode, have to repent.
You should know your own caves well enough to know when they are about to blow. Should hear your own canary sing. Should know the destruction your unsteady mines always bring.
You clear the way out of your own rubble and debris. You emerge feeling able, feeling calmer, feeling free.
But you are an inexpert miner. You don’t understand the carefully propped walls or the eroded broken tracks. You don’t know that it doesn’t smell and it’s something you won’t see.
You want me to be soft, not to scream.
Your shrapnel fills my flesh and your words gouge out hunks of my skin, your looks tear apart the rest of me.
Your canary is gagging in smoke. It has never been able to make you hear it sing.
After the fact, you say you’re sorry, you’ll change. And tomorrow, tomorrow you’ll go back.
I want to trace the edges from the mountains that are your shoulders down the curve of your spine to the dip in your back.
It takes every ounce of my willpower to let your tumultuous terrain sleep. To keep my fingers to myself while that normally stormy brow is in such a soft quell.
A steady rise and fall in the weather under your shirt is begging for a forecast.
The pucker of those lips are screaming to be touched, to be ravaged, to be kissed.
A soft sigh and I’m done. Willpower be damned. We were made for this.
The Earth is cracking down all of Her seams. She will beat us, in the end, She’s been too tolerant of our mean.
There is a golden thread connecting you to me. Through all dirt roads and dark holes there is always a link.
We are connected by a thin golden string.
Fall in to a chasm and you’ll follow me there. As the world splits under our feet, we are tied together. Always you and me.
Explosions from the Sun, or sheep that try to herd us to their slaughterhouse, they can’t possibly know.
Cosmically imprinted, made into two, She can cave in but it remains me and you.
Empires are burning and we are aflame in their wake. You hold on to me. For our beliefs, we will burn at the stake.
Tethered together by a thin golden string. Wherever there is a you, there will always be a me.
Tumbling up. Into a starry, infinite demise.
Where does your self go when you can’t claim selfless and “me”, and “my’s?”
In my brain I’m screaming “STOP.” “Me first, my way, just this once make it about me…”
But I don’t know how to be selfish. Other than in my car, I have no idea how to scream.
It makes my heart skip and race. No doubt to to stress. And to age.
I need to be number one, soon. Today. I need you to take action, fix, to redeem, to move.
I have always sewn with the scrap from the fabric I’m given. I can make thread from any inadequacy. Hem and break in someone else’s seam.
I need you to take those callused hands to a tailor. To practice the ins and the outs of fixing the holes that you pick. I
need to sit back and to breathe so someone else can finally work at sewing these seams.
I have been fundamentally changed.
The blue prints that map out the solar system of my brain have over passes and alleys.
The roadways that ended with blockades and turns that led to nowhere are connected to more streets.
Satellites orbit. Trees tower and side walks meet.
A tweek in the map that has been short circuited by men who faked cartography was the simple eraser to what was pencil.
A small path to begin what would become a world.
A rewrite and an explorer was all that was needed from a sedentary girl.
He is the Hotchkiss to my unexplored frontier. The mapmaker that changed every unexplored mountain range, drew out a map with a legend to make far off seem near.
I am an entire world because of him. A world I left unexplored because I didn’t know how to search within.
I am changed. And I am of my own choosing, all the things I have and haven’t been.
I have always known that Happy isn’t a goal found at the center of a winding path peppered with thorns.
It isn’t the glint of gold after decades of saving those nuggets to be able to spend.
I’ve known as long as I’ve known sunshine on my face that Happy is noticing signs. Nuances. Colors. Wrinkles and smiles.
I’ve looked for Happy in all of my days and always found Her to be there smiling at me.
The smell of your hair on my favorite blanket.
The sound of your favorite album playing downstairs.
There isn’t an end goal to reach Her. I invite Her in, always, into my home. She came in one day, and She brought you.
Happy knew that She needed us, too.
Driving down the old streets I used to haunt to get to you. Off of Hazelridge drive.
The last time I saw you it was a Saturday night. Wide, deep, the brightest green eyes.
But now when I take this drive I’m the ghost but you’re the one who died.
It’s a haunting that doesn’t often creep up on me like it you used to. A drive I avoid. The years don’t mend my heart like Time promised to do.
Tonight I’ll howl wildly at the Moon. To you. My muse. I’ll always do everything madly, fully, wholeheartedly, like you’d want me to.
All the words built up in my messy heart decided they couldn’t live there anymore.
They couldn’t sit stale in the lively air and were expelled into wisps that will never be heard.
All the words that seemed so important to scream into the faces that haunted my heartaches, have been dispelled into nights where they lost power, sound, and might.
Closure simply means it needs to be closed. A door shut. A window locked. Any openings that let the warmth out of a home. I guess it never mattered who said it last, closure means that someone merely goes.
I am unwavering stone sunk into earth. The foundation to an empire that the Mother herself can’t cause to quake.
The writer of our stories. My unsaid words can’t own me. With this, my power can’t be anyone’s to take.