Well, That's One Way To Test How You Feel About Someone:

outside my window the

night spreads like a

virus infecting space with

shadow; smothering the solitary

citadels, the white flags, the bells;

stretching on and on it

erodes all color, all shiny things,

turning them gritty and dull with

void; night cannot last forever yet

even now i suffer the well in my heart

drying up, my eyes only seeing the

flowers on my skin by inadequate starlight.

I thought it was the fear of getting hurt

that held me back from falling in love;

now I understand

it was really the fear of hurting others

that was truly unbearable.

I should’ve jumped when the ball-point pen across the room started scribbling

scratching the surface of a worn down notepad

hovering over it, I saw my name

in bolded letters I read the word ALONE

how dare a mystery writer reach into my soul

ripping out my deepest feeling

addressing it like you would the day’s weather

I would’ve complained, if there were anyone to hear me speak

the invisible critic marked another word

AFRAID

my hand connected with the paper as an arrow pointed to my destroyed nail beds

I guess the analysis wasn’t wrong as I drew back my shaky hands

i was a daughter at some point in my mortal existence

now i am what’s left of a child

rugged-worn down being

who’s outgrown the wonder that used to course through her veins

And one day may I lay in an endless landscape of wildflowers

Let my stomach be full and my hair unruly

The sun beating down in true mid morning light

The birds sing a song not of this world

I want to bathe every ounce of a life that was never mine away in the stream a mile north

Icy cold water

Babbling over rocks

Washing away someone’s mother’s screaming

Erasing his sweaty handprints from her body

Let my face be stained with blood red fruit

Sitting underneath the cherry tree

Gorging myself with the very definition of contentment

My cheeks touched by the sun

There is a pleasant sort of exhaustion I will feel

When my basket carries freshly picked fruit

My arms sore from the trees I had scaled

To pick better fruit and gaze at what lies in the field of beauty

It’s 7

The sun is going down

Fireflies take over the land

crickets are chirping a symphony

It’s the kind of spring that you believe might last forever

My window is open

The trees sing their hollow lullaby

I’m asleep in minutes

I wake up to find myself drenched in sweat, the window is closed.

there are no birds.

I must be dreaming.

For someone who couldn't sleep in the confines of four walls, her presence seemed much like home,a warmth he had never known

Having spent his favourite times amidst trees, forests and raving waves, she felt much like a storm that hitting broke the sleep of his lonely shore

Where birds perched on trees came down the Earth to meet him, she sprung her wings away from him,soaring high in the sky

Water bend their ways to come pass him by and yet she carried the vigour of an ocean untamed and wild,windy and rough challenging him with her eyes

He could bare himself to biting coldness of any sort, yet the warmth that flew from the tip of her hands caught him off guard like never before

She is in the raving spirit of the sea, the scorching life of the sun, the serenity that gives life to the moon, in his very existence

She is the dream as well as the reality and every liminal space there is to be, she is the day and night and every shade of the sky in-between.

~nt

_ She was a different kind of a wind_

Image from Pinterest

“Reading is one form of escape. Running for your life is another.”

— Lemony Snicket

i’m sitting here in the peace of midnight

just trying to reciprocate the terrible feelings i’ve felt

never will i be able to comprehend how i felt with you

and nothing will be said about how my heart shattered when you left

all i have left is the darkness welcoming like an old friend

I want to be small

 to be able to fold my body into itself

To hug my own essence within gangly limbs

I want to embody my own soul and display its fragile state

I have spent much time knowing I am too much for this life

I want the bone chilling matter of being insignificant 

It’d be nice to feel small for a change

Sometimes I write in my journal as if somebody a century from now is going to find it and suddenly become captivated by the old ways of life. After they finish reading it, perhaps they’ll start living life similarly to how I do. In the past. In another life.