|The first picture Aeris ever took with my digital camera.|
Glass MemoriesDearly Beloved,
Hey, love, it’s me again. It’s winter now – the icy wind throws itself at these stained cinderblock walls but to no avail; a wall works both ways.
A year has passed since I last spoke with you – a year already! No, I’m sure it was yesterday – a Monday.
I never did like Mondays.
I remember where we met. In the subway. You were the last to board a crowded train, I stood up as the wheels began to creak, glancing at you as I did so and nodding ever so slightly towards the empty seat. You laughed and called me a gentlemen, tucking those few strands of honey-colored hair behind your ear. Your nails were painted blue. Light blue. Like the sky.
The mass of people gradually thinned out as we neared the end of the route, until you and I were the only ones left in that car. We sat awkwardly next to each other – you twirling your hair and I fiddling with the buttons on my shirt cuff. I don’t know why I didn’t get up and move.
Current Residence: New Hampshire
Favourite genre of music: Rock/Punk
Favourite style of art: Photography
Favourite cartoon character: GIR!!!
Personal Quote: "I cannot let you burn me up, nor can I resist you. No mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed."
The Traveling SunflowerA girl sat on a street corner, snacking on a packet of salted sunflower seeds. Her brown hair was in braids, and her bangs were kept out of her face with two barrettes on either side.
It was a small, boring town in which she lived, one where nothing ever really “happened.” That was why she was sitting, waiting, on that street corner. It was her means of making something happen, her last resort. She was getting out of her nowhere town, running away, in the most efficient way she had heard about. She carried only a backpack with clothes in it to last a week, but enough money to buy her a month’s worth more, saved up from her weekly allowance. She had been planning this for a while.
She wanted to travel someplace exciting. It didn’t really matter where. But boredom was not the only reason she wanted to leave the place she called home. She had just started 7th grade and the other girls at her school had already gone through puberty, and they made fun of her flat che
I catch the scent of you
just when I think you’re gone
you come with the breeze
all burnt matches
and black coffee
a heady haze
which haunts my nights
and stirs my soul
midnight and you’re there
a spectral sleeper
in the space next to mine
you smell like coming home
and I reach my hand to touch you
to know you
to understand that fucking part of you
that you won’t let me see
but your body breaks at my touch
skin turns to dust to light to darkness
and I am left with only the scent
of burnt matches
and black coffee
12:37 a.m.golden streetlights flickered between ebony roads,
stars glimmering on and off to the downbeat of our breathing.
it was 12:37 a.m.
you were caught between the hands of a ticking clock,
inhaling seconds like a long draw from a cigarette.
our breath billowed out in waves,
pulled by the moon in tides that fell
like sheets around our faces.
it was a rush of blushing cheeks and fingertips,
thrumming chests and shaking knees,
runny noses and frigid touch.
the december air swaddled us in its gelid arms,
cradled our heads between its icy fingers.
time slowed down.
FallowWhen I was a little girl, we lived in a house with a nectarine tree. My father tended to it faithfully, watering it and pruning away the dead wood and the branches that would grow too heavy with time, sealing the trimmed edges with care. Each spring, it bore a can-can line of frilly, fragrant petticoat blossoms, cast away wantonly beneath the carnal attentions of buzzing cyprian bees. Each summer, it groaned beneath the weight of fruit, ripening in heavy round golden bellies, basking in the honeyed California sunlight, serene and assured in its fecundity. For a glorious few weeks, we would eat nectarines all day long, in as many creative applications as we could think of, canning the excess for a taste of summer in the fallow months to come.
One spring, the tree dropped every one of its leaves, instead flowering in a veritable nova of blooms… somehow, it sensed the end of its long, slow life, and in one last tremendous effort, it sank all of its energies into posterity, producing
The Wet Paper Dress (pressed to my chest)I catch them as they fall
the little birds from her window
and they whisper rain-stained words
for me to look up, look up as more fall
the sky is filled with the paper cranes
rushing in a desperate flight
wishing through the air
on dreams and floating lanterns
and then I see her drifting
floating out the window
down to me at a speed I can't remember
and I brace to impact
but she lands safely, softly in my arms
and the raining, wishing sky looks orange to the east
where broken and blackened clouds part way
to a sunset passing a sunrise
and to that end I walk
and she cries to an exhausted sleep in my arms
and the suns are respite for my heavy heart
Meara and the MermaidOnce upon a time,
Very long ago
Lived a kingdom on a cliffside,
With the ocean far below.
Within it lived the mermaids
With sea-jewels in their hair;
Beneath the moon, they swam all night,
By daybreak, none were there.
Once upon a day,
Of bluest sky and sea,
A girl from that said kingdom
Was lost in reverie;
But this girl was no peasant,
She was the princess fair;
The lucid sky was in her eyes
And sunbeams in her hair.
Princess Meara was her name,
A child at thirteen;
The king, her father, loved her so
And called her "Little Queen";
For his own wife had long since passed
And left him quite alone;
So Meara was his foremost thought;
He scarce heeded the throne.
She looked down on the water
Tossing in the light,
And wished that she could watch the mermaids
Dancing in the night.
But when the creatures rose to play,
She had gone to bed;
The kingdom thought these beings strange,
Regarding them with dread.
For oceans were an unknown thought,
Their depths a mystery;
The people called the merma
a retraction of august's horoscope“aquarius, you have fallen in love with the storm again,”
the august horoscope reads.
it is almost—but not quite—correct.
for the sake of astrological accuracy
it might be revised to read,
“aquarius, you have fallen
in love—” (this part
“—aquarius, you have fallen in love
in the sticky heat of summer,
the air as damp as your skin,
heat rising from the tarmac
of this flat swamp town.”
or perhaps, “aquarius,
it will not feel like a storm.
there will be no lightning bolts,
no thunder. there will be no fire
under your skin.”
“aquarius, your love will be slow and soft.
it will be the sound of leaves rustling and pages turning,
of songs sung quietly in a dark bedroom, of cell phones ringing
at the most inopportune moment.
it will be the smell of dinner cooking. aquarius,
will be his body pressed against yours
as you sit on the kitchen counter at 2am
quietly drinking tea, and
it will be losing