possibly i could keep doing this —
straining endlessly towards you just
short of the point of snapping —
but as i’m told it’s best to savor your lot,
however little it is. and anyway
a lone walk in the rain never hurt anyone.
so i feel like i should probably mention that the personal blog to which this blog links is not mine but that of ashley, with whom i switched urls. and i forgot to fix it. so the drivel on this blog is in no way her work.
however, should you click the link on this blog, i highly recommend you click the link to her writing blog because her writing is p much if zusak and gaiman’s novels had a baby and that baby were by turns quirky and eloquent.
such strange loveliness, the way the
trees bow in a windstorm
as if willing to show that they
are just as breakable as you or i.
(come morning you will learn it was a lie,
it will still be there, perhaps a little short
of leaves. it only means that you
have the potential to be it, the tree
that bows in the storm but does not break.
you litter the ground with your leaves and
forget to watch the colors in the dirt.)
when u want to write hte fic but it doesnt happen so you give up and leave it as it was before you ruin it anymore
it is 2 am and the golden light spills in from the hallway and in through the crack in my bedroom door and onto the floor where it stretches out like a sleepy cat
while i lay on the wrong side of the bed with my mouth dry of the sleep i’ve yet to take (for sleep is a food, a low-hanging golden apple, the sort God grants you permission to take) and you can count the night sounds on your fingers, the
soft rumbling of thunder like distant trains and
the street slick with sweet witching hour rain and the cars gliding over and
the night air buzzing with the breath of insomniacs and
the wind that carries it and
carries homesick headaches back home (there is no home but many houses on a forgettable timeline)
time is one brilliant run-on sentence and all the poets in the world
could never hope to write something nearly so beautiful
i will not tell you you are perfect,
even though some days i think you might be.
nonetheless i think you should know that you are
beautiful the way the clouds are, reflected on the
surface of a still pond, and brilliant like the sun
through the window in the cruelest days of winter.
and, most of all, that you are bigger than
the combined evil of your demons.
sometimes the sun rises like the glorious swell in the orchestra just before the end (where musicians herald the end and hold it in their hands like they might a child, God has always loved beginnings); and sometimes it comes behind the quiet raindrop kisses, muted and lovely amid the grey clouds whispering life down and asking for nothing in return. you love the rain as i do, loudly and with your hands raised up to greet it. sometimes a storm rises, early, far too early for the stars who love to watch and to listen to the rumble of thunder like the trumpet of the seventh angel. and on those days when heaven pours its will into the sewer there is naught else to do but watch, laughing, tangling words like shoelaces and wishing they could be more.
i do not have much to give you. i tell you this because one day glorified love letters will not be enough and if ever i am lucky enough to see you with your arms crossed and your heart waiting for more i will not have to remind you how little i have. i will offer my library because i am not good at sharing much else. i will offer my words because they are my only pride. i will offer you one hundred and one sunrises, one hundred and one rainy mornings, and one hundred and two storms; and if ever the sun fails to rise i will try to offer you the more for which you’ll always want to ask.