Palm reader

Just let me trace the palms of your hands,
the lines that connect from the bottom of your palm;
to the top where it widens out.
Your lifeline, my lifeline
the one that makes me feel tethered to your own.
How long a life you’ll live,
mapped out like a journey
we’ll compare each other’s roads,
see where they’ll diverge.
Let the suns light, sneak through the gaps
eye’s covered in surprises, and when the blush creeps up
starting on my neck, behind my ears, up to my cheeks
and you can read it in my eyes.
We’ll drum our fingers on our knees,
in the air-
when a solo is necessary and fundamental to our dance parties.
Thumbs up for
our favorite foods
and songs
your freshly washed sheets
my pancakes on Sundays.
Thumbs down for
puns that don’t make you want to cringe
the bottom of ice cream pints
lost keys
poorly made margaritas.
You see, these hands tell me more
than secrets scribbled through journals
and childhood bedrooms alike.
Your work, your life
all splattered across those beautiful wide hands
that grasp for
my hips
the back of my neck
and my very own hands.
So tiny in yours.
Enveloped, covered, protected.
Lifeline to lifeline.
All of this and all of you and all of me
I read it in your hands,
when I traced them.

Get Busy Living | What I thought about when I opened that little box of memories

I sat crossed legged on the floor of my childhood room. The paint’s been redone once again. From sunny yellow, to nauseating pink and purple stripes, now coming to a calm sunset blue. I took out that box, the one that usually remains settled, dormant, untouched for many years. It’s the one you dig out in moments- of nostalgia, sadness, and sometimes weakness.

It contains all but moments- things that should have been thrown out many moons ago. But somehow find themselves still here, living harmoniously inside this cream colored secret box of mine.

I open it slowly, like a gift that keeps on giving- the lid is covered in quotes and words. All dated and signed like I was afraid I’d forget that I wrote them.

What sits at the top is a collection of old birthday cards. From best friends, past friends, and people who were there in passing. But it’s never about the pieces at the top, the things so easily on display for whoever discovered it. It’s always the deeper you dig, the more treasure you find. The closer you get to the love, the closer you get to knowing me.

Because at the bottom, are letters, the remaining pieces of loves, and lovers. The pieces that I consciously stopped remembering. Except for when I open this box. I guess the thing about letting go, is that we never truly do. Never let go completely. And maybe its not so that we have reminders of those people we loved- but so that we can have reminders of who we were when we loved like that. When I loved like that. Someone who loved so fiercely, for not knowing a thing about love at all. Was she loving right? Should she care more? Care less?

How silly it all seems now, because there was never a right way at all. Love was love. Love is love. And it came in many forms.

Maybe it was CD’s of dub-step, with letters written longhand, describing each song. The moment you feel the drop, anticipating it. All those shiny silver disc’s wrapped in handmade envelopes entitled “Moar Lyrics. Moar Fun. Moar Love.” How you listened to it, over and over, in those walls that were still so pink and purple, you were dizzy. Partly from the color, partly from the songs.

Maybe it was love notes. Celebrating seven months of first love and first loving. Postcards marked from Spain. How you checked the mail every day, just up until that very card came. How we dreamed of being lovers in Spain. How loving you was an adventure all on its own.

Maybe it was cling peach jars, and three versions of the same letter, written to the same lover. Filling the jar to the brim with quotes- words from another mind, saying everything your fourteen year old self didn’t have the guts to say. But you spent the time, finding the exact right ones, clipped them up- to hand over in a jar, to a boy, in the middle of the rain, on that very driveway where he’s picked you up a handful of times. How you’d love that boy for a long while.

All love. All different. All beautiful. All their own.

So, the box, the one we keep in the back. Sealed tight with pictures, letter, cards, and your heart. All living simultaneously inside. Take it out every once in a while, blow off the dust, take in the moments.

Because it’s all just proof. Proof that you’ve loved like this, and that you’ll love again. Stronger and better. Each time. With time. With life.¶


Tell Me

Tell me all the ways that you have been unkind, to yourself and to others. The ways that you wish you could return back to those moments, and apologize for being that version of yourself. How many times you have turned over new leaves, and shed skins, to become this very version of you. How this version is not the final version. How you’re never sure that there ever will be a final version. Tell me the ways that you count the stars in the sky, from the roof of your childhood home. That you wanted to paint the walls with your own day dreams, and that there wasn’t ever a cloudy sky that didn’t have you sitting right under it. Tell me the ways that you make your favorite meals, when the day has taken its toll on your tired and weary body. That if you could pack it all up and leave for a destination unknown, you’d leave yesterday. Tell me the ways that you make lists. Pros and cons for every moment and memory that has ever occurred in that tireless head of yours. Tell me every soul that you have fallen in love with, and that has fallen in love with your own. How you intertwined their lives to coincide with yours. How you never thought you’d let go, and how one day you finally did. Tell me how you’ve been broken, and how you’ve had to piece back the pieces. Tell me about the pieces you’ve left behind. I’m looking for more than what you do on the weekends, and what you do for a living. I want to know your soul. I want to bare my own. I want to know the hundreds of ways you love life; tell me it all. ¶

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