Revisiting old writings:
Bats flutter aimlessly through a pitch black cave.
as the world moves, so does the full moon to cast it’s light
A fog so thick, not even the owls can blink.
eyes are peeled monitoring their prey.
darkness fills the root of a tree extending to it’s weak branches,
cold and bushy it sways. it waits.
and while the snakes,
rabbits and rats kill, there is a feast.
A commotion of communication in the dismal emptiness
And my heart…
damp, done and ghostly.
as I sit in the tree and wait.
the bird does not sing, not anymore.
with it’s beak it picks at my rib cage, hoping to crack the skeletal.
a feeling so unique, but all too familiar.
the feathers inside, cushion the hurt I swallow.
And with my heart clenched in my teeth,
sadness trickles slowly to my feet.
Doesn’t matter how I’m alive, or even why.
My white eyes tell no more secrets, the wind has swept away.
The vultures will come soon, as I’m left to dry.
‘Til then, I’m hoping,
broken by each note of silence, wallowing in the winter nightfall
I met a stranger by the beach. Somehow, we began to strike up a conversation about painting and well, it turns out she’s a painter. I was really impressed. The only painters I knew where cousins to English literature majors - writers, who were essentially, introverted dreamers.
She did not study to paint. She had studied at USC, a business program.
I learned all of this as we went for a walk and grabbed tea. I shared her my stories, but I was far more interested in hers.
She had the cutest freckles on her hand. I’d notice them whenever she’d laugh and place her hand softly on my arm. There was something about her so refined, elegant and mature, but also fun and easy. It could’ve been the beautiful backdrop of ocean waves rising and crashing or the palm trees that swayed from brisk wind that also made her hair move lightly - all of this romanticizing around me in the moment.
After a good two hours of walking and talking, it was time for us to go our separate ways. We exchanged contact and ended the encounter with a hug and then another.
It was all so unexpected, yet in retrospect I’m beyond thrilled at how chance brought us together…
I want to see her again. I can’t help thinking “What if - what if?” But I’ve also grown used to appreciating a special moment, by closing the book after the chapter ends.
But what if the story isn’t finished yet? Maybe chance will speak again.
As we place our hands into the sidewalks wet cement.
with our index fingers, lets draw hearts over our imprints.
an image that says “young love” in the air, I smell it’s scent.
hopes that a summers bliss won’t diminish, from the sealed lips of a first kiss.