A heart drawn on a frosty passenger side window.

Confidence drawn from the proverbial well of your courage 

sweeps my hand into yours.

A spritz of my perfume mingles with the smell of a freshly written letter to you,

with the unique perfume that your house smells of

 for just seconds 

after I sweep through the door, drunk.

A blue tie strangles my bedpost.

A black dress sock—

the hated foreigner among dainty citizens of my unmentionables drawer—

causes day dreams to wind and swim 

in the wildly white recesses of my reluctant imagination.

In my mirror black and white polaroids where we both wear black sunglasses;

they hang on 

our 

noses like privacy signs on 

our 

very own hotel door knob.

White light magnified by snow banks and swallowed by dark winter conifers growing from immutable black city pavement.

Dark winter grime spatters flawless snow.

But black ink graces my white paper inside

While hot black tea flushes my pale complexion.

I wait for the swimming day dreams.

Now,

the day being done, they are welcome.

Tonight my white wine will 

pale

 to your 

dark 

winter lagers

and you will both turn my cheeks and lips 

to soft winter roses

as I softly rise to kiss you.

My face looks muddy today.

Patchy.

Dryness and oil coincide to create the dirty complexion I regretfully view in a spotted mirror.

My ears hurt.

I listened to a poet today who soothed them

but they are still aching.

The screaming notes coming from your actions are ripping them to shreds. 

Absurdly fast, syncopated fingers gibe on a guitar, making it cry out painfully.

You ran from her.

Crashing symbols crunch my tiny, helpless inner ear bones.

You took the cat, the mahogany bedroom dresser, the silver candle sticks that you will probably pawn 

and sped off in your car.

We are neither in control nor completely naive of our actions, said the poet.

Yes, yes,

Put socks in my ears with your pretty words! and achieve the serenity in myself that I cannot accomplish myself. 

Oh Soft cotton balls! Fill me to the brim and let me lay comfortable beside myself where I am usually so twitchy and restless.

I sigh audibly and return to a sunny day where

I am stopped, staring at a red light preparing to 

to…

to what?

I realize I do not know what song the radio is singing,

What street I am.

I whip around to see if the dog is riding shotgun.

He is not.

Why am I in the car?

How did I get here?

Was I going to the store, was I leaving town? Going to mother’s house to sob crocodile tears into lace covered throw pillows and a rough, flour-dappled apron?

I just don’t know.

I cannothearmyselfthinkanymore.My ears hurt.

here is another version of the poem i just posted (the last line is JOHN MAYER’S not mine.)

Left to rot in dingy vases under layers of dust, paper roses wilt too.

So I guess it’s a good thing I 

Might

Have you.

To justify my

Constantly 

Conjuring 

Assumptions that you will bring me real ones.

Assuming is dangerous.

So are promises.

So are open fan blades. 

So let’s drink cheap beer together and listen to live versions of John Mayer at the Nokia theatre.

Better yet we could drink cheap beer and watch even cheaper, trashier TV.

No promises,

No assumptions,

No sex,

Just friends.

We’ll keep far away from those fan blades.

After all, belief is a beautiful armor but it makes for the heaviest sword

Left to rot in dingy vases under layers of dust, paper roses wilt too.

So I guess it’s a good thing I 

Might

Have you.

To justify my

Constantly 

Conjuring 

Assumptions that you will bring me real ones.

Assuming is dangerous.

So are promises.

So are open fan blades. 

Belief is a beautiful armor
But makes for the heaviest sword
Like punching under water
You never can hit who you’re trying for

Some need the exhibition
And some have to know they tried
It’s the chemical weapon
For the war that’s raging on inside

_JOHN MAYER_

This is quite easily the most delightful winter of my 19 years on this earth. I’ve always been proud to be an Ohio girl, but it’s nice to finally say I have enjoyed all 4 four seasons this year. 

I’m sitting outside at a picnic table writing this at John Carroll in CLEVELAND of all places; I’m barely wearing a coat and my favorite sunglasses are resting on my nose.

The sun is warming my jeaned legs as it hits them during this God sent, gentle, February. 

bookmania:

Google front page celebrates the 200th birthday of — one of the most beloved storytellers in the English language — Charles Dickens!

Running to hug you, how do our feet know exactly where to stop?

The perfect distance from the other’s toes so that when we reach out, there are mere inches from my lips to yours.

“Everything crackles when I walk, dear,”

she said as she stood to go.

The teapot was whistling

And the TV blared loud

Because his hearing aid was turned down to ‘low.’

These splendid old bean eaters

These God loving fools

Live out their days alone.

She can barely see right

And her hands can’t much hold

The hair brush of hers

he plated with gold.

She’s hardly annoyed by the ways of this world,

She’s seen it all come and go except—

The caller ID is a plain old mystery—

What happened to telegrams?

This lovely of woman 

And her lovely old man

Still live out their days as in old,

He goes to the barber and she to salon

To gussy up pretty for the drug store.

Few worries they have

But tonight without fail,

She’ll screech

 “Al! What’s the Jeopardy channel?!”

“WHAT!?”

He’ll yell back as he shuffles her way

From the kitchen where

 sleep closed his eyes as he waited “all day”

For that “damn coffee pot

that never made good coffee in anyway.”

Then they’ll eat stale chips

And he’ll start to snore

As she turns the TV up to its max;

Shifting thick, horn rim glasses that she’s had since high school

Untill in the blue TV lights her eyes will glow.

She can see her show is over 

as the fuzzy credits roll down

She stands up and everything cracks,

Shuffle…

Shuffle…

Step.

She reaches for him 

and covers his feet

 with a quilt.

I want to be lead.

I want to be told something so profound that I cry.

More than that I want to believe this thing I’m told.

I want to know what makes you cry.

I want to know what you dreamt of last night,

And more than that 

I must know if your’re happy when you dream 

or if you’re bleeding inside,

hoping for something you won’t tell me. 

I want to know something you’re only telling your heart;

But more than that I want to be sure you can trust yourself in every word you say.

I want to write, and have readers. 

I must cause impact and I must go.

Where is not clear,

But why is so sure.

Can you learn to stand when your baby steps are over

And can you run as a last resort 

but be happy you first learned to walk? 

I wish you would write ‘love’ on your arms, your hand, your wrist,

When you’re bored in class

Or when you feel like you’re the only one home alone on Friday,

Because I believe the repetition of love is as good as the recognition of it.

I want you to…

I want to know that you can…

Can you please learn to…

More that anything can you…

just be happy you first learned to walk.

unrequited

feeling down

what can save me but the sound

of my own words 

from my own head

flowing freely down this marble pen

Taylor Swift’s simple school girl lyrics have covered two of the three

And kind of make me wonder why she hasn’t gone into the third.

The phrase includes all three 

and begins with the most important,

yet she writes about the other two

separately.

Yours…

Ah, yours.

Because its not what’s mine, that I can work on.

Its not what’s ours 

because I can only control so much of that

But yours

Now there’s the tricky one.

dreamsftw:

The city lights stole the stars from the night 
but children still wished on unseen lights,
It didn’t matter to them 
That they were out of sight, 
It only mattered that it
felt right. 

bookmania:

To see Alice and the Cheshire Cat being recreated by hand, click here.

…But A Word…