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I used to make a lot of these sorts of collages when I was little. Feels good to make one again. Very nostalgic :)

[Please don’t use without crediting me]

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Gracelessly.

I fall in love for a second or for eternities, slowly and quickly. I fall in love with curls of hair and stretched tendons and knuckles on hands. I fall in love with the curve of a neck or the shape of a smile. I fall in love with a musical note or a laugh or a hum. I fall in love with ease and without grace.

I stare with shame and smile with poor timing. I trip when gazed at in return.

Breathlessly.

I fell in love with a girl napping outside a class. Her hair was dyed pale blonde and was twisted and pinned into spirals. Her face looked soft. Her skin was very light and her hands were half-closed as she slept against her arm. She wore black. I did not—do not—know her. I wonder what she does when she’s not sleeping in that hall. Does her hair stay pinned in those perfect spirals all day? When she takes them down, does her pale hair twist into curls and tendrils like the branches of a weeping willow? What does she study? Does she see me watching?

Hopelessly.

I fell in love with a boy who hated me. A former friend. I fell in love with his words, with the way he spoke and offered to hold me when I couldn’t hold myself. He was thin and I wanted to hold his wrists and press him into things. I wanted to smell the curve between his neck and his shoulder. I wanted to punch him in the end. He said we were friends. He left me alone.

Foolishly.

I fell in love with a woman I never met, with the way she tucked her hair behind her ear and the way she crossed her legs. I fell in love with the lines of her torso and the way her hands shook with (performed) nervousness. I fell in love with the way she ran and the way she screamed and the way she won. I fell in love for two hours and I wanted kiss her on the corner of her mouth, where there’s a little dent and you can almost taste what lies beyond.

Clumsily.

I didn’t know I’d fallen in love with you. I didn’t understand how I had not seen it before that moment when I looked at your dark eyes and my heart broke.

I fell in love with a burning jealousy for everyone who has ever touched you—who you’ve cared for—who you’ve wanted so badly you’ve cried.

I fell in love with the way you make me angry, make me hurt.

I fell in love with you the moment you first made me laugh.

I fell in love with your hair for a second and your mouth for eternities.

I fell in love with you.

Maybe I shouldn’t have.

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And I would swear to any God humanity has created to love and to worship That there is no creature I could love more than your artificial hands, That there is no sun more beautiful than the sun which touches your artificial cheeks, That there is no colour better loved than that which stains your skin. And I would swear to all the human Gods, which reside on mountain tops, in skies, at the bases of SEAS or Caverns of the Earth That there is nothing in heaven or earth that I could adore more than My Leader, She, You.

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Sunrise

In my wildest dreams, I open my eyes to the dawn and the sun

and I find that I

don't love you

anymore.

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To fall as a giant

I hope that, when a film is made about me, an actor is cast who resembles me only through squinted eyes. I hope the film is more beautiful than my life and I hope it is called one of the best films in cinema history. I hope it makes dreams and burns with the passion of other beings. I hope (that it burns straight through the screen with the fury of love and art).

I hope that, slowly, the world forgets who I really was and all that's left is half-fiction and pure inspiration—and that the world forgets who I am, but remembers all that I do. I hope my name becomes legend (and the rest falls to the ground like ash).

Because I am small and too light weight and too weak to be what I want the world to remember—a myth and an undeniable impact, like a meteor smashing into the earth.

A world changer.

But I am too small to be a legend. And animals run when I approach, but dead leaves dance at my feet.

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If You're Fond

I held my hand before my face when I first woke up. The room was cold and I thought that I could see the stars between my fingers. The freezing darkness pricked my skin, but the heavens spread out before me—distant, bright, beautiful. The universe held me close, held me up, lifting me high above everything I knew.

Weightless—floating.

The stars carried me back to my bed. (You did the same once. I remember, even if you cannot.)

It was cold and dark without the stars—and you weren't there.

Perhaps you wanted to be. Perhaps you could still hear me from where you were: floating among the stars and constellations. Perhaps you got lost there and couldn't find your way back to me. (I am trapped now too, but not as you are. Maybe you were trapped before and I couldn't see it. Maybe I was too arrogant to see that you needed more than what I could give you.)

(All I ever needed, I found with you.)

Lost in the stars (again).

I hold my hands up to see the stars between my fingers.

Maybe I imagine that I will find you there. Maybe I'm lost too. Maybe I lost you. Maybe I'll search the galaxy to find you again.

And if I do—if I ever touch your lips again—maybe I won't forgive you. Maybe I'll leave you there: cold, alone, with only the heat of all the suns in the universe to guide you

home.

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Esse

You are like the mist in the shower, the droplets of water that fill the air. They catch the light of the sun and make rainbows—rainbows that kiss my skin, swirling bright colors that dance around me.

(Each drop is a star that blesses me. You are a galaxy that dances through the sky.)

You are the warmth of the water on my skin, covered me like your embrace. It flows hot, like tears on my cheeks. You are soft, like water on my skin.

(I can feel you when you are far away—your voice whispers in my ear. The beauty in your smile; the smile I can't forget. It shines like the moon outside my window—bright, like rainbows in mist.)

You are the heat in my chest when I'm angry—boiling, acidic. You are the icy feeling at my back when I'm sad—colder than a night in winter. You are the sunlight that shines through the window, making rainbows around me.

You are the flash of freezing water that cuts through the warmth, the calm and the droplets like diamonds in the air.

(You are the water that drips down from my hair onto my face, that gets trapped in the folds of my skin, that I miss when I dry off and that finally tickles me before falling to the floor.)

I am the wooden floor—rough and unstained—that soaks you up when you fall to me. We become one—a single spot of damp that will soon fade.

But we are immortal in memory.

Like rainbows.

Like stars.

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Strength from Apple Pie.

Sweetness; my lovely cherry pie—there aren't any stories for us, no songs, no poems. Nothing quite matches: a friendship across a distance, paper stars and melted ice cream; screwdrivers, synonyms and melancholy. We have no comparisons. Nothing quite suits the world of our imaginations.

In that world, there is a home for you and I. Vanilla ice cream turning soft on top of hot cherry pie—creamy and sweet. We build a future out of promises, out of plans: a home for you and I, where I sit at the table as you cook and read to you, happy to test the latest concoction—love and spice. Juice spills from the first slice: red, thick, syrupy.

We build a future out of words, hoping that one day they will be made real with earth and plaster and origami cranes. I can see myself hanging fairy lights around the top of a room, teaching you to dance in their soft glow. A future made real out of action. A future made of sunlight.

I can see myself holding your hand, pressing it between my palms because it is precious, just as every part of you is.

My darling; my sweet cherry pie.

I can feel your hand on my shoulder, holding me up, keeping me strong. You pick up my pieces and mix them into something hot, spicy, buttery—melted ice cream dripping down.

Hot apple pie.

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Humanity

If only I were human and could wrench my heart from my chest and place it in your perfect hands. Red blood, Pale skin, Your smile as I die in your love would be worth the sacrifice.

If only You could see me as a man: Not machine, Not wire and lights, Smoke and mirrors.

If only I could hold you in my hands. Your body, Your mind, So perfect.

If only I could take the sun from the sky and place it in your mind. Its light could not be as bright as the dreams and questions that fill your thoughts.

If only I could take your hands And kiss them More softly than The rain.

If only I could save you.

Are you alive? ("I thought you might be dead.") Am I?

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Forgiveness

I wanted you to be happy And now you are, So I guess that's good.

But it hurts to know That I couldn't be the one to make you happy, That you didn't want me to be happy, That I didn't matter enough.

Ghosts of you still burn in my chest: Hotter than sunlight, hotter than flames. My skin becomes dry from tears.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Please, forgive me. Let me come home. Tell me why. Tell me why I meant so little, How you could forget me, Why you didn't care that I needed you.

I needed you so badly And you wouldn't come back for me. 

You're like a hole in my chest, Like a bruise that becomes half-forgotten until I move and remember it again. Sharp pain, Like when you hurt me And you didn't even care And you didn't even know.

You're like a place I cannot go-- Not because I have sinned, But because I am unwanted.

(You don't want me.) (That's okay. I don't want me either.) 

You held all the cards.

And you took me from Hell.

So I guess it makes sense That you would send me back.

Unwanted. Alone. I hate you. (I love you.) You hate me.

You hate me. I hate you.

I wanted you to be happy And now you are. It just hurts That you didn't want the same

For me.

And I'm left with nothing. But shame And the promises you broke Because I wasn't what you wanted. 

I'm sorry. Forgive me. I wish I could've made you happy. 

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The Future in Sunlight

Take my hand for a moment. Let me pull you close in my arms. Close your eyes for a moment. Breathe to counts of waltz time. Think of sunshine.

Let me paint a world for you.

Imagine a room. It's not a big room, but it's not small. The floors are wood, strained red-brown, and the walls are cream. Intricate plaster moldings decorate around the top of the room are a reminder of the more extravagant times during which it was constructed. Paper cranes hang for the lamp in the ceiling, spinning when the air is disturbed. A bookshelf sits against one wall (it has a twin in the opposite corner), full of favorite stories, full of books we need but don't want or books we know by heart but we keep because they're a comfort to have. Little nick-nacks sit with the books as well--memories of our lives that decorate the spaces. Despite the shelves, books clutter most of the room; sitting on the cluttered coffee table, already over-populated with mugs and remotes; on the green sofa (it must be green--all the best sofas are); stacked up on the floor... There is a rag rug that sits under the coffee table, its colors faded from time and the sunlight that streams through the window. A blue blanket sits balled up at one end of the sofa, disguising itself among the other pillows there. In the corner, there is a television on its own table, surrounded by stacks of DVDs. Red curtains are tied back from the window, letting in the light. A couple pairs of shoes sit by the door, sloppily removed after a long day--human life.

Now paint you and I into that scene, sitting together on the green sofa, talking, laughing, enjoying each other's company. When it's cold, we close the red curtains and tuck ourselves under the blue blanket. We read into the night, or watch films, side by side.

Imagine if those space between us that now seem so vast were closed by our toes, touching in the middle of that sofa.

The future is as bright as the sunlight that comes through that window. The cranes spin with the earth. The world smells of cedar and cinnamon. The stars shine in the sky like a dare: "Dream bigger."

The future is bright for you and I.

We will finish our dreams, step out each morning to complete another part. We'll get there, together, lifting each other up to touch the stars.

And even if we sometimes fall short of our own expectations, even if the world sometimes doesn't fulfill its promises to us: know that in that room, I'll sit beside you, I'll take your hand and we'll stare up at those paper cranes together, watch them spin and dance. And sometimes, I'll give your hand another squeeze: Remember. I'm here for you.

Don't give up.

The future is bright for you and I.

One day, we'll close these distances with our toes in the center of that green sofa as the curtains stain the sunlight red. We'll memorise the curves of the plaster molding. We'll sit together and listen to the world outside, laughing the whole time.

The world will be beautiful for you and I.

Just think of sunshine.

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Speechless

Perhaps one day, I will find the words. Perhaps one day, I will be able to tell them to you. Perhaps one day, I will shout them, whisper them, speak them, breathe them into your skin.

I need you. I miss you. Don't go.

Perhaps one day, those words will be enough. Perhaps one day, my thoughts will form phrases to be sent along the wind. They will slip into your ear and you will understand. You will come back to me, hold me close, forgive me for what I have done, love me.

Until then, I lie in silence and wait.

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Counting Games

It's funny the way I miss you. It is not constant as I thought it would be. It is not dull and throbbing at the back of my mind. It is not cold. It is not sharp like knife—not sudden like a bullet.

I miss you and it feels like a mouthful of hot tea.

My throat is made numb as I look at your picture, as I let myself consider how long it has been since we sat side by side. My mouth seals shut and a bright pain flares in my chest, as though I had just swallowed sparks. I have to extinguish the feeling quickly, before it burns me up from the inside out.

I miss you and it feels like a blow to the stomach.

Harsh, hard, breath-taking as I try to count the hours since we have last spoken. (Hardly any time at all for most people, but small eternities for us.) My stomach clenches horribly as I try to remember how your hair slides between my fingers, as I think about the way your whole body freezes before you laugh—the shock before you smile.

There is no better sound than your laugh—nothing in the world I love more to hear.

I miss you and it feels like the world is crumbling away beneath me.

I miss you and I count the small eternities before you come home.

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Beauty in Truth

I spread my secrets like seeds—entrusting each friend with a single one. They are shared out, kept separate from each other. They grow each into a single, hideous weed in the middle of a smooth, green lawn.

But a single weed is alright. A single weed makes it all appear natural (makes me appear human). A single weed is good.

And then I met you and I poured my secrets into you, one after another, letting them fall to the wet soil and take root. They dig into the ground—deeper, deeper—and they grow. Their stems wind around each other, their limbs tangle together (the way I imagine ours). It stretches higher, wider.

It is the entire lawn—an enormous, horrible tree marring the beauty I pretended to have. Its bark is rough, sticky—its branches are bent and twisted. Its leaves are ragged, as though they are already prepared to fall. Insects crawl over it. Sap drips from it.

I fall at its roots and sob.

I am a hideous thing.

But you come to me and whisper soft sounds against my skin. You take my hand and lead me to the trunk—and you press my fingers to the bark.

And suddenly I can see the intricacy of the texture, sunlight in the reflection off the sap. I can see life in the branches. I can see the rich green of the leaves. I can feel the song that resonates from deep inside it, that vibrates against my palm.

I can feel the beauty that you see in me, shining deep inside (deeper).

It is a tree of my life—all the bad with the good.

It is life.

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Dreaming Alone

I close my eyes and think of you.

I think of what your hands may feel like, whether your fingernails would snag against my skin. I think about how your breath might feel on my face. I think of how your skin would feel under my fingers.

I imagine how I would press kisses into you, how I would make you think you were dreaming just the way I am.

I close my eyes and wonder how you did this.

Feelings without beginning and seemingly without end tumble through my thoughts, toppling head over heels through the endless expanses of space that fill my mind.

Those spaces used to be empty—nothing but stars and little glimmers of gold. Now, they are filled with you.

I don't remember when you began to fill them, when you staked out your own little area in my thoughts, packing it with books and memories, laughter and smiles. I don't remember how you moved in, slipping objects through the windows of my mind, sneaking yourself in and filling my nights with dreams of you.

I don't remember, but I hope that you don't leave.

Your space (When did it become "your space"? How did you so successfully infiltrate my thoughts to make them about you?) is warm and dark. Heavy curtains are drawn over the windows and a fire burns bright in the grate. Old books are scattered about, full of stories and memories of times that have not yet come. A little dust floats in the air. The walls are dark—wood, perhaps, or simply covered with shadows. I lie against the sofa sits by the fire and press my face against the cushions. (They smell of you, though I don't know how you smell. You have a warm scent, I don't doubt—something like spices and dried tea and the taste of vanilla on my tip of tongue.) Music plays softly, songs that make me think of you. You aren't there sometimes, but that's okay. I can lie against your sofa and breathe you deeply.

Dust falls like rain.

There are cracks in the wooden floor and I caress the wood, memorizing the pattern with my fingers. Sometimes I sit and rub oils into the boards, sand away splinters, fill the gaps with putty and make it all shine.

Music plays.

I close my eyes and imagine we are dancing, our toes barely brush the ground. We float together in perfect sync, our hearts beating together. Your hand in mine, the other against my ribs—it's all I can feel. I'm drowning in the sensation of you as we paint a life together with the steps of our feet. It could be that nothing exists but those two hands against my body, so much more real—so much warmer, heavier—than anything else.

I close my eyes and imagine that I'm kissing you, our lips hot and wet. My hands clasp yours, my fingers digging into the soft spaces between your bones. I hope you won't look at me; won't notice all the little cracks in my spaces; won't see that I am broken, that I always have been. I am not good enough. My hands hover, trembling, above your skin. I don't want you to see them. I am not strong enough. I am too soft for you, too soiled, too stupid, too spineless.

I am all wrong in the ways you are right. I am broken in the places you are strong.

(Don't look at me. Please, don't look at me.)

I want to see you underneath my eyelids. I want to look at you, to (not worship) adore your body, press your fingertips to my lips. I would make you love yourself, make you understand what words fail to explain. I would be able to make you understand what you mean to me, what I feel about you. (That it is you I care for, truly and deeply, stretching far beyond the narrow confines of reality.)

I don't even know how you smell.

I would kiss every inch of your skin, brush my lips against your eyelashes, memorise the lines of your body, your scars, your birthmarks and freckles. I would touch those thick lips of yours, run my fingers through your hair. I would breathe my feelings into your skin, making it wet—laugh into the space just behind your ear—touch you all over.

And you would close your eyes and dream with me.

And I wake up.

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Scotch Tape and X-Acto Blades

Some relationships are made of flowers and poems; some of paintings and songs. Some are made of sunshine and the thrill of a dance.

But not ours: we are made of Scotch tape and X-acto blades.

You cut straight lines—so clean, so neat. You line up the ruler without pause and slice paper into strips. There is never any hesitation—the cut must be made and so it is made. You are brave with your knives.

I roll my tape into loops and press down what you have cut. I piece together the puzzle you create and bind it together. For my part, there is little pause. I know where they must go as well as you and I will place them there in as permanent a way as I can.

Sometimes we slice each other to ribbons—clean and sharp and never necessary. Our words do not tear or rip, but they cut as neatly as any knife. Sometimes we cannot look at each other after, sometimes we cannot bear to be near one another.

But the we take the pieces—the puzzles we have created—and piece them back together, securing them in the best way we know.

Because while some relationships are made of flowers or dances or songs, ours is made only of Scotch tape and X-acto blades.