sticky rice

it's wonderful when it's not stuck to your fingers
with sesame seeds
i don't like the way they taste

avocados are nice
i like the non-texture

i sort of just want life to melt in my mouth. does that make sense?
no

i want the world to be an avocado
green
and you don't have to chew it

but everybody is sticky rice and sesame seeds
it's ok though
because we all have tuna inside
and tuna is pretty good

i'm sitting in bed thinking about the world as sushi
i'm not crazy
benadryl
it makes me this way

i need to buy more kleenex
yes

the world

is sometimes very nice but also sometimes an awful place

i'd like to write a song sometime

but i get caught up on good handwriting and when my voice is too shaky so i don't, ever

i don't do

i am

feeling overwhelmed by comfort. by bare feet on the shelf below the table. by eating sticky peppered pierogis with my hands and licking a bit of salt off my thumb. by the quiet clicking of a keyboard. by the way white appears repeatedly in the same room in ten different shades. by the sound of a baby talking in the other room and a warm house in winter.

last night i dreamt i was telling someone that home is where you keep your leftovers and let the dishes stack up because there's nobody you need to impress.

and that's just not true. you should always wash your dishes, especially if you don't want bugs.

will grow will green

Where bodies of water are interrupted by rude stretches of black, asphalt heated and uncomfortable beneath bare heels, where yellow pinstriping leads the way through landscapes that now grow around impeding pathways is where I will wait.

You will drive in a plastic-metal machine, with a silvery sheen on the outside but on the inside, you have plastered wilderness to the walls. Sandstone-beige leather on the dash, the doors. You will anchor yourself to the seat.

I will be walking barefoot, in a flowered dress when I can't find any blossoms to bunch, to toss, to place tender into your hand. There were white and yellow daisies lining the highway but I'm on a graveled shore, wishing for sand, small pink toes wincing with each step.

There will be mountains. They will hang over our heads, not perfect hills of sand drizzled with care from a giant fist but spiraled, etched with a delicate winding road that roars, that complains with every prod from beneath that results in a blemish, or pothole. Tree roots create mounds and ruts, but we won't see them from the lakeside, only the way that oil makes rainbows on the shoulder.

The mountains will seem to lean in, gaze at meshing fingers, and hope to overhear some whispered words, artificially sweet and too cool for spring. With snow on the ground still, our words must be warm.

What will be important is not the mountains, the rainbows or roads, but the lap of water on un-smooth stones, not yet tumbled in the machine I got for Christmas years ago, the creak of a turtle's joints as it wakes at the bottom of the lake, the nuances of green in the tree reflected in my eyes. Green. I grow. You are a tree, and I wrap my arms around your waist. I climb, and I twine.

bawhh

so this is where i should apologize for being a bad blogger. not going to. i'm just going to say hello, and share something with you.

http://www.letterstocrushes.com/letter/982

i could

write something big and important about the new year. i could write about new beginnings, resolutions, reflections on the past year, century...but those posts annoy me. so i'm going to say hi. and i got lots of socks and hot beverage fixings for christmas. i've had a pretty good couple of days, and predict the next few days will be equally as exciting (and busy) so don't expect much from me.

but...

hi. :)

ocean/moon

If love is water, then I am an ocean.
I am motion. I gravitate to your battered
face. You hang, silvery iridescent,
circling. I move under your gaze, wake
to see you wink and lap against beaches
in anticipation. You draw me close, you pull
me, inch by pained inch. I stay up with you.

You sleep without me through the day
and I wait. The sun is too bright
for you, too garish. I want to find you, pull
you from your resting place and lay you to sleep
in my depths. More I want you to see me, to know,
to be free from the tossing and turning
of my surface. I want to send you searching.

Walk my floor, untrampled by the unruly visitors
who tread my shores. Your feet would fall carefully,
I know. I'd call lanternfish, Jack-o-lantern gaping
mouthed swimmers to light your way in the darkness,
to turn murky waters clear with a swish
of their tail. I'd assign you a mermaid, a migrant
from some warmer sea to detangle your feet
from the weeds, fallen moon-lover, to hold your hand
as you sought beauty and truth in the lit black.

I could never keep you. I know this but I would hold
you for one day, just one. When night fell I would lift
you and carry you until all sunlight was gone.
You would bob, a buoy, not yet illuminated.
As you rose, found your place in the sky
my waters would leave your face. All traces would dry.
The only thing left would be a touch of salt, a bitter
bite left on your skin. You would look down
and I would look up at your face, just turned
away, but with one eye rested on me.