Delirious, dauntless and dissolute – this Autumn breeze, brilliant petals of pink and gold that serve as a backdrop to tousled hair and reddening contour; reading what I have just written, I now believe that the season is synonymous, the growing cycle gifts with both ripeness and maturity; it’s no less than a step towards realizing, recognizing and reclaiming true self.
I am what I have always been – fiery, determined with a purpose of
fulfilling my life’s direction. You say that trees bring their art to the world,
their branches taking root in the sky— but tell me for I understand not, I
have lived so long with rough-barked beauties, so long that I’d hug them
had there not been people flitting around. Do they feel the way we do?
And when the season wraps them in scarlet, do they carry on with hope?
The darkest hour of dawn and its hum, November clouds drifting ever so slowly despite everything that surrounds; can I wake and keep my dreams with me?
As darkness surrenders, every colour, every shade changes from sable to a vibrancy; there are days when I wonder about the way the universe runs, would we be the same if limbs impassioned lost their magic, if they felt otherwise? The lake-side air is pungent with the fragrance of jasmine, its surface as smooth as glass – radiating ripples which, if one is lucky, are caught by twilight; can you hear the gulls overhead?
What I can do, you can do, you don’t see it yet but believe me when I say it’s true; we need only have conviction, the heart understands truths dark, unintelligible—there is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles.
Do you remember? Remember, the time we went to the moor? Barefoot round a turning in the path— in the darkness an unexpected scent touched us, of honey, heather and gorse bush which seems to be embroidered into the very landscape.
Tell me how do you feel? Sleeplessness unveiling itself from the bitter blue sky; if only we could paint choices on its walls wouldn’t need to then endure all that follows. I am slightly damp, for romance of melancholy found within the classics refuse to leave me; is this what it means to be an old soul?
We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of time, mortality, my dear, is a flavor long attached with the moors. And I wonder if expansiveness, if mere concept that tugs needs to be explored more often? Do we cry or rest?
Watery-white, the moon casts its glow onto the city, the sycamore maple silhouetted, in the distance, against the obsidian sky. Have you ever wondered how the moon could be bringing heightened emotions to surface? Like the sudden blooming of colour that sears through one’s cheeks, the tide with its waves rolling in and out, its rhythm as steady as our own— have you noticed how similar the magnetic effect?
I am lonesome, the light from my iPhone much like absent rain not beating down; slender fingers scrolling through and replying to misunderstood syllables. Honestly speaking, I find that the moon senses a tinge of sweetness behind my eyes and in turn lends to fiery spirit. I am hardly one to pout while seated upon plush furniture; it’s too much work in my opinion. I’d rather smile my way through the floodwaters of relating myself to the world.
Sanguine moon observes, the rush of blood during a full phase— heron calls.
Slipping subtly through to lift the blackness is want; its brazen light shimmers across dark waters, just outside, and streams in through the space between my curtains. “Sometimes, all that a heart needs is a push.”
In their dreams they sleep with the moon; freed of gravity, flail up to dimensions of realms unknown. Herons, unlike us, fret not over gulls not accepting them. I am a soft, silent September night sewn by the sense of you. I tell myself misgiving is first and foremost an
external force, stating that one isn’t capable of handling situations; are we seriously going to allow it to stand in our way?
I hold a perfect salt-bleached shell to my ear, listen to the voices reaching out from all sides. Sweet, succulent, savory, the sting
that rises within erases all remains. I prefer stewing in dreams wide
Whatever happens, happens once. It’s ephemeral like passing mist. Somewhat like the taste of dark chocolate, the night less than nocturnal; life is brutal that way, the moments that touch us are also those we can never hold onto for long.
I write them down every chance I get. The exquisite blend of hot and cold; that is life. When I found him, I learned things I never knew about myself. How I long to kiss his lips, shapely as a rosebud, sometimes I still my thoughts in hopes of hearing his heartbeat. We are many miles apart at the moment. We will remember once when it is over, said and
done – it was a time and there was never enough of it.
By day the café is the colour of bergamot orange. I hold on to knowledge that it’s disposition alone that determines affinity.