I want to live between the pages of an old book.
Let the faded print sustain my hunger.
Let the dull, curled pages shelter me from the cold outside.
The musty smell would be my new perfume.
I’d live here in this worn and weathered world until the binding breaks.
Our dreams are not linear.
We live terrible lives in the dark of night.
As the brakes screech over and over. I see you sitting next to me.
As the glass breaks over and over. I hear you telling me goodbye.
These soft sheets yield dark lives in the terrible of night.
Golden honey sticks and butterfly wings.
Fractals of the truth.
Another knife digs into my abdomen. I hear you whisper goodbye.
Another tube goes down my throat. I see you sitting next to me.
Just a peak of light slowly creeps into the muscles of my mind.
As I begin to wake,
the wings flap one last time.
When I died,
my soul burst into an infinite number of butterflies.
When you need me,
look for the flap of a small, orange wing.
Listen for my flutter.
I will migrate with you until the day that you become a butterfly too.
My childhood was spent in a house in the mountains,
Second exit to the right and straight up the winding, dirt road.
I can still smell the poppies and pine trees.
I can still see the glimmers of mica catching the sun in the flower beds.
I would hug the trees as if they were my friends and drink the air as if it were my favorite tea.
It was an adventure.
I sometimes wonder if my grandfather’s laugh still permeates the halls,
and if the smell of a thousand Christmas mornings emanate from its walls.
I never got to say goodbye.
I suppose saying goodbye would mean to go away and forget,
and I can never forget.
I am a thief.
I have spent my life stealing from the women around me and from the women who came before me
I have stolen pieces of their souls
I have patched it over my own holes and filled myself with new strength
I have allowed these women to raise me higher
They are my heroes
They are my namesakes
Their very spirit intertwines with mine and I am me because of it.
Sometimes I think about you.
Sometimes I wonder what you would look and sound like.
Sometimes I wonder if we would have named you Violet or Finn once we saw you.
I know I’ll never see you.
I know I’ll never know.
I know you live somewhere with the rest of my dreams now, in a place I’ll never get to go.
Your generosity and love has transcended time and space.
Your jovial soul has permeated generation after generation.
You are a becon of hope and light during the dismal, dark winter.
You have turned strangers into neighbors to envoke your spirit of giving.
Give. Give. Give.
Merry for all.
You have made magic come alive.
May you forever wrap us in your red sash, and hold some hope for us in your sleigh.
Hold on to our memories.
Tuck them deep inside the seams of your walls.
Bury them into your garden.
Hold our laughs and smiles.
Make it all part of your story.
Make us a piece of your puzzle.
Let our love and joy saturate your very frame.
We will hold you in our heart, if you do the same.
I don’t remember yesterday.
No matter how hard I try.
Memories are like the pieces of a mosaic that I’m constantly gluing down.
I set right as much as I can, and the rest just fades into the background.
I grasp, pull, and struggle for the pieces to fit.
I don’t remember yesterday.
I am stuck in the present, and waiting for the future.
A watched pot never boils.
I can’t remember if the stove is even on.