I suddenly felt very still and sad. The kind of sadness that tugs the heart down into the stomach and makes them both ache. Heavy eye lid, shaky voice, worried brow sadness, one that sinks deep and seems as though it will never leave. Everything I’d been and done was such a busy storm. For so long I’d been swallowed up in destruction. It stopped though. It always does, I think, at least for a little while. In that time I could see all that remained and all I could remember. So scattered, so broken, dispersed beneath a calm yellow-green sky. The vase I broke in silence  though, was somehow louder than the entire house being ripped apart. A tiny turquoise vase, hand-painted and glazed, fell to the floor on my accord. I’ll miss it the most, the thing I lost after the storm.

wah

if you know me

you know i am not a neat garden

i have weeds where lilies should be

and it’s fair to say

i once let cool breeze shrivel my leaves

yet I still breathe

silent inhales

or violent gasps

i am still green 

"I always feel a bit more alone after talking with certain people. It does not matter if I am shouting or whispering softly, I am not heard. They do not listen. Sometimes company does not fill the void, it widens it. Words escape my mouth and they are misunderstood. They are forgotten. They are discarded. I have come to understand that not speaking is better than giving ones words to a set of faulty ears. Too often, I have lent my open and broken to a closed and hopeless. I have given too much, I have worn myself down. There are too many gaps in my organs, too much has been stripped away. This decay makes me cling to what is left. I have begun to bottle myself up, to contain what I still can. If I am going to be alone, I am going to do it alone. Company just magnifies the vacancy."

"‘I’m too tired to sleep,’ he said. Even as he spoke them, he knew his words had stopped making sense. He knew everything had stopped making sense. Money didn’t make sense. Women didn’t make sense. Violence didn’t make sense, nor did pacifism. Applesauce made sense, but he didn’t like applesauce. He liked cinnamon sticks and crossword puzzles in the newspaper, but neither made much sense without cider or a pen. He was without both. The man sitting next to him was a stranger. It was Tuesday and they were waiting for the subway. It seemed the train was taking especially long. Trains didn’t make sense. Tunnels didn’t make sense. They moved too fast. They were too dark. Too busy. Too lonely. They were like most people. Like the lover he’d left and the other that left him. Like the bank teller and the taxi driver. Like the people working on Wall Street and the people begging on it. They were all the same and he was tired. He was too tired to sleep."

"There is that one person who gives you enough to make you love them, but never gives you enough to let you know that you’re loved back. This person will ruin you. Let go as best you can. Start now."

Letters

i’d have to write you letters

just to tell you how i feel

i couldn’t utter words

they’d have to push

themselves up from my gut

they’d have to be

extracted from my heart

and as they made their way

to my voice box,

as i would try to utter them,

they would come out

so ugly and heavy

they would be too broken

they’d be too scattered

for me to pass them to from my lips

to your ears

you would hear the raw,

wretched sound of all i feel

of all i keep beneath my ribcage

beneath skin, beneath my veins,

my muscles and my blood

my thoughts hide beneath my hair

my heartbeat beneath my sweater

i’ve covered up all i feel in blankets

i’ve wrapped it all inside

the locked box that is my mind

the cage that is my body

and if i could be so bold

to let it escape me,

i would not speak it out loud

i’d write it to you in a letter

i’d write it to you in a letter

and place it somewhere

where it would never be found

I was

so awfully alone one night

a night i spent with

someone

by my side

i was in sickly solitude

as a hand ran along my thigh

breath and bodies

are not home

kisses

are not love

closeness

is not closeness

i was not

his

and he was not

mine

fields

how blessed we are, i thought

as I saw a large woman with white hair

hobble toward the elevator door

it’s all there, it’s all in front of us 

i thought of Caroline and our curly hair

our small hands and bitten nails

our freckled, fair skin

the green of our eyes

the way we both fear losing,

fear forgetting

fear letting others in

fear not becoming enough

fear not being enough

but how lucky we are

how lovely we are

young and

smart and

capable

with so much ahead

with so much love in our hearts

so much to give

with a steady pulse

of shocking sockets,

pushing electricity out of our centers

like scattered magnetic dust

dispersing and forming images

of God and symbols that were

imbedded into rocks

before cables and screens

claimed our insides and

infected our minds

we are packed with potential

we are what lies beneath

the surface of the earth

unclaimed diamonds,

misshapen like our crooked thoughts

waiting to be held, waiting to be polished

we are an old man’s shoes

covered in busy street residue

we are foggy windows when it snows

we are condensation

on glasses of cold water

we are minerals tossing in a winter stream

we are rocks and pebbles

we are leaves changing color,

ready to fall from our maternal tree

we fear the ground

and we fear what it means to be in the clouds

we are cracks of thunder

we are nowhere

and we are everywhere

we are gliding monarchs

aching for pollen

tracing back to us is the year we

spent nestled deep in a cocoon

we are out and we cannot go back

we are sifting the progress

of cathedrals being built

and books being burned

we can hear torn pages

and screams of everyone

who has not made it

we are breaths of

what has been done to us

since the day we

were cut from our chord

since the day we were formed

and into this earth, our energy was born

we have been burnt

and we have burnt ourselves

like cattle, skin is seared

with all that is not green,

with all that is unclean

with every boom strike fall of night

and every beacon of white

that hangs in the sky

with every yellow morning

and blue day

we are tugged further from the warm,

pure place we were made

we see less of the root

and more of what is growing beside us

so there is the sting of,

“maybe i should grow that way”

there is the sting of,

“maybe i should change”

"‘I’m always a little sad though,’ she said. She tucked her hair behind her ear and sniffled. Her nose was running a little. With the sleeve of her sweatshirt, she gave it a quick wipe. For her, sadness was eternal, it was always within her. This sadness was much like rain. It was like London rain, like Seattle rain. The kind that comes in heavy waves and lasts for days. No one could say anything to make her feel better. After a while, it became clear to her that she would have to build her own fires. She would have to tie her own tourniquet. In order to survive you must keep your own heat and you must find a way not to bleed. There is nowhere to lean and no one else you can be."

Men who write and sing

There are men who write about the way they’ve been damaged by girls, the ache and the loss they feel when they part. Then there are men who praise girls, whose songs are all about how great girls make them feel, how beautiful these girls are. Clearly there is a blurry line, but I think the men who write about the wreckage are a bit more sincere. At least when I think of Justin Vernon’s lyrics and style of writing, there’s so much selfless ache within his words. They aren’t calculated, they aren’t the type of songs that intend to serenade, like say, John Mayer. They’re simply songs that show his vulnerability, they show how he cares and the way he sees it. All with his angel voice and finger strums. I’ve never been more in love with someone I’ve never met.