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[riwritingrn]

Amidst the cool breeze and Christmas preparations, under the star-studded night sky,  I had no choice but to listen to my stubborn toddler heart. It only says -wants- one thing, over and over again: your name; a two-syllable heartache, and Christmas headache. 

[riwritingrn]

One look at you and i realise that ive been locked out of heaven for so long.

December fades into February and I can think of little besides you. 

In late November when we planted a seed, a flower that only blossomed in the moonlight. December, its roots dug in deeper; it blossomed, gaudy and rich-colored pillow-soft petals with an intoxicating perfume that you could lose your senses to. 

January, the winds were high and the leaves danced away but the roots still stayed.

February the flower stretched its petals to display, a smile so big that hurts your face. But beautiful flowers are always plucked away. They always end up dead. They always rot. Perhaps, that is the tragedy of beauty. It is always taken away.

But in my head, we are still at our best. Still not destroyed. 

Perhaps the flower only bloomed in me and never in you. Perhaps the flower was plucked away and died in you. Perhaps if I loved you less, I might have been able to pluck it away too.  

[riwritingrn]

December Daze

I woke up in December half a year too late. 

Nothing remains of us. 

December I woke up with so much to tell you and realized we don't speak the same language anymore. 

I haven't heard from you since June. 

Half a decade later, June this year would have still been the last time I heard from you.

This Christmas, I’ll wait for your call like I did last time. 

You will never call though, I know.

Where did you go?

[riwritingrn]

Jeremy Miranda (American, b. 1980, Newport, RI, USA, based Dover, NH, USA) - 1: Kitchen Pt 2, 2022  2: April Fire Sketch, 2022   3: Neighbors 4  4: End of Day Studio Interior, 2022  5: Living Room, 2022  6: Turpentine, 2016  7: Spring Interior with Sink, 2022  8: Side Yard, 2021, Paintings: Acrylic on Panel

[riwritingrn]

[riwritingrn]

My lord,

Why do you do this?

Why must i burn in the flames of my fathers sins

While he stands by my ashes

And prays for more light.

[riwritingrn]

Your kiss dissolves in my mouth like a lemondrop, like cottoncandy that stains my lips strawberry pink

Like a lozenge for the lump in my throat

Time has no meaning here

Trapped in a limbo here with you

Frozen in time like a scene inside a snowglobe

You and me and the sea

This moment dissolves like rock salt in water

Until it feels as though I'm looking through a dirty window at a memory that isn't mine

It seems like you live lightyears away under different skies, in a different time

But sometimes I remember when I look at the stars, that you and I, we look at the same sky

So I send my regards, my affection, as a kiss blown in the wind

I hope it grazes on your skin, I hope it finds you well

And maybe you aren't, but I hope you're doing well, I hope you're happy, I hope you're content

[riwritingrn]

On a neon sticky note you wrote five Decembers ago

"Get powdered cocoa"

We made hot chocolate later that night

Its been five years since the last time

The note has been since folded

Horizondally, vertically, moulded then remoulded

I keep it, neatly folded, in my purse

Long after you took away your pants and shirts

On a neon sticky note, thats no longer sticky, you wrote five Decembers ago

"Get powered cocoa

Love ya"

And a little heart drawn next to it

[riwritingrn]

I leave my abode only to return as a spectator

Only to haunt these halls as a ghost

I leave my childhood in a whisper

Like a sustained note slowly fading into nothingness

Unknowingly, unintentionally

I leave all loves of my life only to return at instances, briefly, as a stranger

Wornout toys still on the living room floor,

Faceless people I can only remember by places and things we shared,

A kiss I left at the sea,

A hand I didn't take,

My friends, who are now timezones away,

My favourite worn out tee under my bed, forgotten,

Rollerskates without wheels,

Cycles with training wheels,

Staying up till 2 am

And when I met my best friend years later he felt out of place

A memory now forged into my reality and I know he felt the same way

Too much time goes on by to ever recover what we had then

So a slight nod and a smile and a "How are you? I'm fine" will suffice

I return back home, a home that was never really mine

[riwritingrn]

Ive been gone for a while and how i return to find tumblr has a whole new look?!?

[riwritingrn]

Sometimes I think of how things would be after I have died, when there is more context to how I had lived.

Would it be obvious what led to my demise?

Would my obsessions and fixations burn me alive?

Would my love run stale and would i turn cold? Or would i die with a heart swelled with love?

Would I die doing something i did every other day, be it healthy or not?

Would it be after my hair had fallen out and my skin pruned up or long after my hair has silvered and smiles have left lines on my face?

Would I die in the arms of someone I love or on the cold, hard floor? Or would i die silently, among the roots, and no one knows?

Would I make sense after I have died?

[riwritingrn]

I want to remember you

But I remember you like a dream

That is, in the confines of a couple of fleeting moments, in no particular order, in a blur

I slip into memories of you by accident and slip out just as fast

I dont know if it is as good as i remember it

Because I dont, really

I want to remember you

But only as a dream

[riwritingrn]

When I'm older, I will live in some small town. Maybe on top of a hill or by the sea. I will have a garden. I will have an orchard. I will lie under the seeds I buried under the earth years ago. I will live in a house with many windows. I will work in a flower shop or a cafe. I will work in a library. I will write and make art. I will dance in the halls with the lights out. I will make myself dinner and I will eat it by myself. I will wear what I want and be okay with who I am. I talk to strangers and comfort kids. I will be the company that keeps old people and tend to the animals and the birds I encounter. I will swim in lakes and climb half a mountain. I will grow and water plants.

I will live like I have died and asked to be sent to experience it all again.

I will be kind to everyone. I will be kind to me.

I will bleed for better reasons.

The water is nectar served to the mightiest of kings. The green grass curls under the weight of dew. The wind blows innocently. On the tree, a noose moves in accordance with the breeze. I realize I'm somewhat lonely. Neither bothers me.

Someday, I will forget all this hurt. Someday, the poems I write won't be so tainted by you or anyone else. Someday, I will be okay.

But “someday” seems so distant and my patience is running thin but I still believe that I will save myself a little bit.

[riwritingrn]

I felt my eyes getting heavy and slowly drifting away

Between blurry lines, it carried me in its arms and I suddenly felt small

Small like a child

Everything I know, knew and pretended to know reduced into nothing

As it got darker and I heard the laughs farther away, the more I felt its tender embrace

And I closed my eyes and tucked my head in and fell asleep.

[riwritingrn]

Where hands touch and hearts beat,

Tell me you’ll meet my lips again



[riwritingrn]

I love how people smile when they see the clouds or smell a flower or walk past a bakery. I love how people smile unconsciously after they laugh. A residue of happiness; a joyful aftertaste.

I love it when people light up when they talk about things they love, the passion a wildfire in their eyes.

I love when people pinch together their eyebrows or gasp or grip together the pages of the book they are reading. I love it when people who sing close their eyes and feel the song in their very bones. I love when people are immersed in their craft, giving attention to every part and perfecting every flaw.

I love when people sigh after a long day and stretch their bodies. I love it when people really taste what they eat and are delighted by it. I love when people wake up, groggy and disoriented and sit in their bed for a long few minutes in silence. I love how people drop a little of their food for stray cats and pet random dogs.

In such instances, a person is not bothered about putting up a facade or a performance. There's no one to impress, no one to impersonate. It's just them and the world and you get a glimpse into their perception of the world. It's when they are being their truest, most authentic selves. I appreciate authenticity so much. Being authentic is a sort of vulnerability too, and an admission and testament to the fact that they are who they are. I think it's beautiful.

[riwritingrn]

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