i still think about ocean waves.
i hear them in my sleep,
and on particular days
i can convince myself
that it’s salt on my lips
that i taste
when the wind cools them
through an open window.
i was gone for so long
that i could not remember your face;
the curvature of your collegiate chin.
my memory twisted my tiny wrists
in an attempt
to focus itself on your eyes,
but i left her with nothing
but empty shells
where a beauty used to be.
you brought me back because you had to.
it wasn’t my choice. it wasn’t my plan.
my plan was to sink as far as possible;
to become a salty sea thing.
a mermaid of mishap,
all blue and shimmering
at the bottom of the ocean.
my plan was to die in the atlantic
as a romantic. and to be forgotten.
that was my plan.
but it didn’t work out-
like everything else
someone had to pick up the pieces.
you carried me back without asking.
you didn’t give me a choice.
you said i felt lighter than beach feathers
when i asked if your arms were getting tired.
now i am here.
trying hard to forget the waves,
trying hard let go of my salty ways,
to make my lover proud.
but i still hear the ebb in my sleep.
calling me back through a dream
to that watery grave.
There must be quite a few things a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them. Whenever I’m sad I’m going to die, or so nervous I can’t sleep, or in love with somebody I won’t be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: “I’ll go take a hot bath.”
- Sylvia Plath
soo we saw alex ebert in the park while having a picnic before the edward sharpe show. when he walked by a second time he said hi to us, and asked if he would see us later at the show. a pleasant surprise to say the least.
rainy afternoon adventures.
i have news for you:
there are people who get up in the morning and cross a room
and open a window and let the sweet breeze in
and let it touch them all over their faces and bodies.
- tony hoagland
like sleepy needles in my toes, you are the small things inside me that can feel good and hurt at the same time. coming in waves like everything else.
i fear we’ve become short clips of our magic daydreams, forgotten somewhere- mixed in with letters and braided bracelets and photographs of oceans.
do you remember what it felt like? can you still see us by the water? do you remember the day we drove for hours just to taste the salt on our lips? come here, hand me your glasses. i will clean them off with the hem of my dress. so you can see and remember.
we will always be there in the winter sand. standing with our love in your hands. mine in yours and yours in mine. the way we need it to be. like the way i need those tiny tingles in my feet.
my favorite guy.
sweet dreams till sunbeams find you.
“tell me what you’re really thinking.”
i stopped sleeping
with the window open
weeks ago.
every summer
buzzing silence
was enough to deaf me,
and force me to take back
whatever warm june emotion
i attributed to you.
because
it was only
the moon in your eyes
that i loved,
and never you.
i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to get past this. i have to fucking get past this.
