Do You Believe in Magic?

Sometimes it really hits me how surreal life is; it's so much beauty and pain smushed together. It's so much meaning without any answers.

There was a boy who every morning for three weeks of ninth grade would wrap his arms around me. He didn't say much or kiss me, but every morning I would come to school and he would hold me. He is gone, and I don't know what that means. And to learn of it this weekend, after days of thinking that life was finally reimbursing me for its prior wrongs. What does it mean?

I wonder: would I rather be content and detached from the bipolar swings of the world, or at the mercy of my passions and really feeling the breadth and depth of my capacity to feel anything? As much as it hurts sometimes, I still choose the latter.

Wander on.

[untitled, in progress]

Today in the rain, there is only

your face dripping with mist,

the stream by my apartment gushing

cafe au lait, the cricket in the holly

bush glistening brown. If this is not

love--your mouth's worship of

my nape, clavicle, scapula--

what is there to say? Your fingers

explore the bay of my navel, the

cresting cliff of my hipbone, and for you

I would be a spider web dotted with dew

perfecting my every arc and angle toward

the symmetry of your folded arms.

I want you to kiss my eyelids

every morning, pressing my sight

into the heavy winter drunk

of daybreak in my window.

What would our hands say?

Them for once the true entwiners,

the conquerors of flesh plateaus--

would their nicotined nailbeds care?

The drastic bow of your lips is soft

with heat and sleep, arrows safely

quivered in your rest. The rise of your

chest is creation, a world beginning

and ending in each cyclical sigh

and I watch your patterns, feel the chaotic

swells on your ribcage sea, its salt

sliding from edge to sternum.

I want to call you "Lover,"

gauge your response in tongue flicks

on an earlobe, then shout my fears

to you like love cries in the night.