When I find something I love
at a cozy and hip little restaurant,
that will be the only place I want to
go until you start to complain
I don’t really like roller coasters and
animated characters popping up in
real life with costumes and whatnot,
but I adore cafe hopping and reading
a good book (and I will ignore you
when I’m lost in between chapters)(But I still like amusement parks, just not every fucking weekend)
I love the beach after sunset even
though I rarely dip my toes in the water,
and I like my bourbon with extra ice and
you will need to love to dance because
I like to dance on Friday nights
On some mornings, you will feel
my lips on your cheek, trying to wake
you up because I love spontaneous
morning adventures with a coffee,
roaming the streets and feeding you
bites of street-food, laughing as you
crease your brows and say that bite
was too big of a mouthful
I want you to take me to your
hiding places, your secret dinner place,
your favorite coffee shop, your least-liked bar, take me to them all
Because babe, I want to know
and I want you to know me
Do you ever get like super vulnerable late at night that you just want to spill your heart out and say how you feel because you’ve been holding it in for so long and you just need some ventilation and there’s just something about two in the morning that makes me lose my filter and say the things I would never have the guts to say when the sun is up.
When you randomly feel depressed. There is no warning, no apparent reason. It just happens. You feel empty, and you feel hopeless. And you just feel tired. As if you never want to move again. Then when someone asks you what’s wrong, you can’t say because there is nothing that comes to mind. Then you start thinking of what it could be, and you realize just how much is wrong. You know that feeling? Yeah, it sucks.
we will find old oceans
dark and deep and sun-lined
where we breathe
we feel (everything)
as the waves leave
their marks on us
and through us
the earth will know
the meaning of love.
What you don’t know
may very well be
the death of me
There’s no saving me
from clutching claws
and the intoxicating riffs
they play on my sinew
You cannot make confessions
I bare my own cross
It’s not a cross at all:
it’s four walls and a roof
riding on my back
like I’m a doomed turtle
My god, lay your lips on me
Make my question my faith
we keep still. adolescent gods
of skin and splendor and dewy oak
counting the worlds we will conquer
once our wings grow. and softly
you say that eternity is somewhere here
in the moonlight and air, that it could be ours
if i would just lean in close and take it.
- the dust dances too
His touch will be like silk,
his kiss like warm milk and honey.
He will sing my name softly to the stars.
He will know my soul and play it gently
like the black and white keys of a baby grand
on a cool November night.
I want everything that a woman my age has gotten over and done with years ago.
I want my first heartbreak. Sure, I’ve been hurt before - but to say my heart actually broke? Nah. I’ve felt cracks on the surface when I realized I had gotten cheated on. I’ve felt those cracks again when I watched my most recent past lover walk out. But within a week I was able to push those cracks back together and make a fresh, new, whole heart.
I’m sure that if we examined this beating organ in my frozen chest under a microscope, we would be able to see the fissures; it’s not as if a lesson was not learned with those two. However, I’ve never had my heart explode into a million pieces and I was on the floor frantically trying to recover every little part to glue back together while still feeling each and every laceration.
I want the kind of heartbreak that makes a woman foolish - that makes her explain away his actions and inactions; that makes her love him even more while he loves her less; that makes her hold on tighter to a fantasy she has created while he sees the ugly realities and imperfections that she has.
They say that pain and pleasure are separated by a very fine line - I want to be addicted to straddling it.
I want to know what falling in love feels like.
I know what loving someone is; but being in love? Or falling in love? Nah.
I want to know whether or not I can be reduced to a drooling, pathetic mess that waits on the acknowledgement of one man - and I want to feel so completely exalted by it that I give all my friends the middle finger and go MIA for a while, with him.
I want to know what it is about falling in love that makes a woman change her outlook on life. To know that happiness depends upon his presence. And then I want to know what happens when he is gone and the source of my happiness leaves me so anguished that I find myself bargaining with the gods-that-be for one more caress, one more whiff, one more look, to commit it all to memory as if that would ever be enough.
I want to know the amount of strength it takes to get out of that kind of agony.
I want to be completely broken and then whole again, to run into love without having learned a damn thing just to shatter all over again.
I want to know that I’m capable of falling in love.
But - I cannot want what I’ve never had.
"You’re making the worst mistake of your life, if you do this."
"I want the chance to find out if this is going to be the worst mistake of my life. You love me too much; you won’t let me go. You won’t let me be free.”
It’s ironic to me that you left to spread your wings and then I found myself flying.
I think that you had always been flying; it was me who was grounded. My wings were never clipped, don’t get me wrong - they were spread wide for balance because I realized long ago that I was the one who held you up and gave you the foundation to beat your own wings. I gave you the comfort that I would always catch you if you ever fell.
I think you left because you finally mastered the art of flying and didn’t need anyone to catch you any longer. I think you want to come back because even though you can now fly anywhere, you need a place to land. But I’m not there anymore, because I”m flying now, too, although I’m wobbly and have to catch my own self when I fall. However, I had already built my nest to come back to so now you are exhausted and tired of flying and probably never want to fly again, but your home is gone.
I think that’s what made you miserable in the first place - was that I had always been the provider for us in the sense that I did what had to be done to keep you happy and you finally came to the realization that I was fighting your battles as well as battles with myself in which you were not even a foot soldier. You weren’t even there when there was a declaration of war.
I think you have never fought in war before, even though you are part of the Army, now. I think you were ashamed that you could not protect me from myself, or from your own wars. I think that’s what made you miserable, and made you think that I was the one who had repressed you from flying, when I had taught you how to fly by buffering the wind for you.
It’s okay. I forgive you. So fly on, my past lover - I’m sure that our paths will cross often and we can share the same branch, somedays. Be free.
I hadn’t realized how much truth was in my self proclaimed emptiness,
when the moment I landed back home I realized I hadn’t prepared as much
as I swore that I had— given that the amount of mental exhaustion was
clearly underestimated on my behalf.
I hadn’t realized how the consecutive nights I spent drinking would eventually
progress into a minor problem whereas I’d ask the bartender to temporarily
relieve in the form of a drink. I exchanged my fears and sadness for the
burning of my throat believing it would make me more silent, more resilient
I hadn’t realized that reconnecting with old friends meant company but
only to the extent I would allow it to grow— my alonesome would curve
the level of intimacy, the amount of openness I would allow for myself to
I hadn’t realized that for the past month, I had become a soldier at best—
the type that wouldn’t allow my thoughts and worries to rest,
the ones that come home after years of being away,
and have a harder time living than being merely alive,
the ones that find comfort in knowing tomorrow could be their last day.
So when your familiar shoulder was finally perched next to me,
I took it so selfishly.
"Underneath this fragile frame lives a battle between pride and shame",
I hadn’t allowed anyone to see me cry nor get too close in case I might
be vulnerable once again and have it all taken from me in the end.
When you witness your family fall apart,
and at the same time, you suffer from a broken heart,
it becomes near illogical to try again.
Please don’t think I would try, again
or let alone, allow anyone in.
Trang To’s Graduation. Sherwood class of 2014. Nigga you made it
Sometimes you want to say, “I love you, but…”
Yet the “but” takes away the ‘I love you’. In love their are no ‘buts’ or ‘if’s’ or ‘when’. It’s just there, and always. No beginning, no end. It’s the condition-less state of the heart. Not a feeling that comes and goes at the whim of the emotions. It is there in our heart, a part of our heart…eventually grafting itself into each limb and cell of our bodies. Love changes our brain, the way we move and talk. Love lives in our spirit and graces us with its presence each day, until death.
To say “I love you, but….” is to say, “I did not love you at all”.
I love you. But I’m not in love with you.
You know the difference and I know the difference and that’s all that matters. Because no matter what anyone else says about what love is and should be, we always present a united front on what love has become: comfort.