beforeyearning

[beforeyearning]

I DREAMT A DREAM IN WHICH

I did not puddle into a water sheen after catching the glint of sun in your eyes

& the trees were lush with greenery, proving that the only remnants of winter

is in our memories and not to be seen anywhere & my heart springs back after

every time it’s trampled & the night is one continuous stream of moonlight that

one could cup their palms into and walk down the stream without the need

for streetlamps & the streetlamps were shaded & reddish amber in hue so as

to not disrupt the nocturnal animals & it was just you and I, really, with the

faint sound of a singing bird because it can’t help itself & somehow, we knew

the words to the song and we hummed along & every moment was a blur but

it wasn’t blue, not when with you & all of it meant something to us—to you.

[beforeyearning]

AFTER THE WOUNDING,

when the bandaging & licking of wounds is done, and the carafe is refilled

with wine, and the night has settled in, the moment in which you realize

this is another lamenting of an old ghost you thought to be laid to rest,

cues your heart to quadruple in its weight & the pit in your stomach,

unruly, is on the verge of becoming a black hole. paralyzed by fear,

you’re unsure of what follows—is it the fragments of memory

that will soon come to replay in the dead of night, or is it the

fact that even at your best, you wield silence as language?

at your worst, at your core—you are a pitiful thing,

the merciful thing would be to put you down,

& you find yourself wounded over & over

again, but never to the point of it being

fatal, because that is a kindness

that eludes you. so, you nurse

the pain and by morning

sun, the cycle begins

again.

[beforeyearning]

YOU DON’T KNOW THIS BUT,

A day from now, some time in the past, you carved April into me,

maimed me with a great sorrow & left me for rotten. I, too sad,

too alone, scooped up the guts and tried to put the pieces back,

at best, the body is an effigy, waiting to be burned by your touch,

and at worst, there is no passing resemblance to a body, a ghost

with too many wounds, too many memories—too little forgetting.

I used to think of April as the one month where everything finds

space to co-exist—pouring rain, snow, biting cold of autumn,

tender warmth of a still-sleepy sun, a quiet place for things to

stir again, but it only carries your whispers now.  

[beforeyearning]

prompt 'in the lap of the gods' from @definegodliness

It would be sanguine—a firstling of your absence, a solemn misshaped thing in the lap of the gods asking for forgiveness

& in return the gods gild its tongue with grief, the definition

of bereft. You remain hospitable. You see to it, the shade of

darkness is at least two lighter than the others, this is your

apology. It’s okay, lichen does not care about the quantity

of light, subsisting on little after needing the right conditions

to form, living in a symbiotic relationship with the world

around it—it’s in this way I feel your presence again.  

[beforeyearning]

[beforeyearning]

heyyyy.....hiiiii....i always see you in my notifs thankyou sooo muchh for all the notes and reblogs 🥹🥹🥹🥹💗💗💗💗 and thankyouu for remembering my blog 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹💗💗💗💗💗🫂🫂🫂 ily 💙💙

🤍

[beforeyearning]

in a soft subdue             the hands become tender        to the point of cotton-candy

sickly-sweet in its aftertaste   & yet you cannot help yourself            you’re at the fair

when else would you have it?                you look at the offing                just past the part

where the sea kisses breeze    and beyond where the sun pounds itself         into warm hues

every night       and wonder      your standing in an indifferent world              and only if you’ve

done anything               just about anything differently            if you would still be walking around

with a crater-sized wound      gaping from your chest and not have the word               fragile

branded on your           forehead            because everyone you meet just instinctively knows

there’s something a little off about you           so they treat you with care and put you down gently                    and never pick you up again                  because they fear breaking you

like        a crack in the good plates at your        grandma’s house so you take extra care

to avoid it         so you can avoid the blame     & the damage

               but really the damage is already done              and you’re a grenade

 waiting              to                          explode

[beforeyearning]

 DRUNK IN THE SEMANTICS OF YOU,

and everything that it entails, I colour my world in the exact shade of your

eyes & hope this is the colour of drowning. I think of the day I liberate the

words that take refuge under my tongue but settle on drawing parallels on

the sight of sunlight coming to rest on the nape of your neck and finding a

twenty in your pockets unexpectedly. I memorize the blueprint to all the

ways the sun kisses you & think of two new ways. I keep the hunger to

myself—I know what it’s like to starve.

[beforeyearning]

prompt: 'olive oil' from @nosebleedclub

AND IN THE SAVAGE ATTEMPT TO BE HOLY, a wound has a name & the divinity in your teeth is a story of how ghosts

become flesh & the circle of life is an act of blasphemy, so you steel yourself

on the scorched tongue that becomes a tongue, glowing red-hot with all the

unsayable things coming home to roost—a litany of things cross your mind

but not once do you question your faith in the yearning that instils in you a

resolve that cannot be pried from your hands & teeth (and heart). you know

yourself to be bereft, inhospitable of many things, so maybe the explanation

starts there: you give | you lose | you provide | you pray & pray & pray but

all your prayers are scratching at the surface of skin, breaking through and

finding sunlight among the bones & finding out you did not have to anoint

yourself with olive oil that odd august night and you’ve been a prisoner to

yourself for far longer than one should be—you weren’t meant to be saved.

[beforeyearning]

THUNDERSNOW IN APRIL,

because of course, the crack of thunder pairs well with freezing rain & snow

in a seemingly last hurrah of winter, even though it’s a baker’s dozen days

into spring—December has long tendrils. I thought of you, I wanted to

send you a recording of it, I know you would have gotten a kick out of the

absurdity but I couldn’t remember where I put my phone. I feel like one

day, you put me down and forgot to pick me up, things haven’t been the

same. I think I’ve been such a constant in your life, you think I’ll still be

there in five days/months/years/decades, and you would be right. Over

here, there’s roughly 150 frost-free days, give or take a fortnight, more

time spent in the frost then in the warmth & you wonder why I carry

you feverishly, with a song in my chest & till my last breath.  

[beforeyearning]

AND IF THIS IS THE FIRST YOU HEAR FROM ME IN A WHILE,

know that I carried you like a boutonnière everywhere since. I tell everyone about

you, the corner-store clerk knows the names of all the pets you had & knows about

your aversions and always keeps a bag of your favourite light roast on hand even

though it doesn’t sell too well. She doesn’t know you but thinks the world of you.

I lean into you when the world is too fragmented, and I don’t know where I belong.

I hope I have a place in your heart, even if it’s a bottom-shelf in a little-used closet.

Do you remember—the second time we stayed up all night talking, eyes glued to

the sky looking for the Lyrids but we didn’t see anything? I wanted to tell you we

had the wrong location put in the GPS and we weren’t anywhere near the designated

dark-sky preserves and I was really just content to be in your company. That night,

I didn’t have to share you with anyone or anything. Funny how things change.   

[beforeyearning]

I’ve missed you. I saw twice as many buds on the tree today.

I wished the weight of spring would unburden me, tether me

to something real, something warm as a bowl of pho shared

in mid-winter. Winter had us pronouncing our dead, blunt

our teeth on bones & grief, ache in our mouths with the

unsayable and words not spoken—you’d think with spring,

with light pouring from every nook and cranny, the world

would seem bigger, warmer, full of life and all I would

have to do is just find the courage and slip into a beautiful

one, but it’s never that simple for me. I think, past the dull

pangs of want, past the aches of being seen, my sieve of a

heart is a size too big for me, carrying hurt that should’ve

scabbed over by now.

[beforeyearning]

I want thick words, thin regrets, a cool spring night with

tea on the burner. I want to be still for a while, watch you

through light & shadows, curating an affinity for the way

errant sunrays delicately cradle your face during the five

o’ clock sun. I want to be as tender as that moment. I want

a songbird that sings praises of you, steadfast devotion.

I want the grass to be soft under your feet, every wildflower

in your presence, to be in bloom.  I want the reckoning, I want

the bruises that are tender to the touch, so I can point at it and

everyone would understand. I want your hands clasped in mine.

I want a soft landing—but the yearning is anything but.  

[beforeyearning]

TURNSPIT DOG

I’ll be good for you. All meat, no bones. I wont whine or want or flinch

at your hand. I’ll keep to myself & serve you in the little ways I can and

hope that will suffice. I minimize myself, I lose my voice, I don’t want to

take up any more space than I need to. I want to be loved. I want to be

told that I did a good job & everything I do doesn’t go unnoticed and

is appreciated and not just expected. I’ll be good for you. Just say the

words. In the interim, I’ll wait by your feet, a kick away.

[beforeyearning]

And in the margins of your silence—I can tell you’re homesick too,

the Sisyphean weight of loneliness tugging at your heart that’s already

a little too stretched, a little worse for wear, the hunger for warmth

abated for the time being & your mouth is dry, so dry, you try on new

poems & new songs and nothing quenches the thirst, and you contend

on pulling the threads of everything & anything that ever mattered in

an attempt to unravel something & anything like the time you broke

a bone and the pain only came when you tried to do something about it

& you thought whether amputating it would be less painful and during the

recovery, it felt nice to have something to showcase the world that you’re hurt

& when the time came to take the cast off, you dreaded it because then you’d

have to use your words. you’d have to use your words.

[beforeyearning]

hey hiiii...are u okay ??? u haven't posted anything and it's been a month !!!??

!!!! you guys are very kind to check in!! i was just busy with work, i missed seeing you guys on the dash!!

[beforeyearning]

Miss you and your writing… ❤️ Hope all is well!

!!! i've missed your writing, will need to get caught up!! everything's fine, just been busy with work!!