Writings

It's strange how you think you can capture your feelings for someone in a few words and when you go do just that, you discover that the said feeling is ever expanding, beyond your reach, like a galaxy. And every attempt at expressing it is powerless ...
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More often than not, people fall for the person who they say "fixed" them or the person who "put the pieces back together". The first person who showed up to their doorstep when they were wallowing in heartache. Like all they want is to be saved. Like all they need is to be saved. I was happy then, as I am now. I've been running on dirt for so long. So I want to tell you, all of you, that I don't need fixing. I never needed any fixing. I'm not some puzzle that you have to figure out. I ...
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Dreaming of you has become my worst fear. Because I shouldn't be. I do not wish to be with you. I do not even think of you. We had our chance, we blew it. I don't even consider that as something real now. There were times in the past when I was concerned about you until I slowly came to realize that no one can change you but yourself. No one can save you but yourself. The people around you can try, but in the end, it boils up to you making that decision. You may or may not have ...
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My mother is a falling star. Leaving all that is golden about her in her trail until she is nothing but blackness, or maybe a grey rock that crashes through my window and into my loft. Bleeding out all her glitter on the way down to rock hard ground. Going from something I always imagined to be a warm glow to something harder, more weathered. More enduring. My mother was a star. She was the bubbling youth, all the freshness of spring and attractiveness of summer moulded into a human being. My mother is a fallen star. A rock in ...
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Yesterday, I was inspired to write this. Yesterday, I had something beautiful to say. Yesterday, I waxed poetic. I was a prophetic genius. Today, I am trying to be who I was yesterday. I am holding on to some vague idea that I had for a minute or two, and I am trying to express it in a phrase that I can understand again. So now I’m sitting here willing words to flow from my fingers, as prose needs just a chain of thought—free flowing, masses of ideas pouring over the grounds, but instead, I have nothing ...
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Delicate pecks. Smile. Giggle. Silence, take a breath. She brushes colors across his lips. Wet and warm. Tastes like mint. Fiddle fingers across ink and paper. Thoughts are washed aside. Breaths mingled, hands encircling, fingers running down the spine. Pause he said. Shudders and quivers and chills and thrills. Look each other in the eyes. Ablaze, like summer nights. Silence, take a breath. Spread apart the folds of the muffler. Ready? Painting and stroking to the core. The tic. The toc. The very moment. Visions turn grey, that momentary flame. The jolt, the surge. It's captivity and vulnerability. He runs ...
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