it's okay

my heart is just as bruised and battered as yours

but within you, it finds a place to rest

to breathe

it finally feels safe

safe in words no dictionary could hold

CHAOS is my mind

i cant make anything rhyme

im sorry i know

im better than this

but for the time being

i'm spilling my chest

i'm gripping my throat

with the hands of my soul

i wonder if you ever talk about missing me to anyone.

if there is another witness to our love story.

i don't think so. you didn't like to share me. us. i doubt that's changed.

so i'm still yours, at least in missing.

The morning’s gray. The kettle whistles steam

into the dullness, stillness, piercing through

another winter dawn. Unshaken dreams

still cling to me, my sight and skin, like dew.

The pages hide unfound, unwritten, out

beyond my fingers’ reach. Uncertainly,

I try to catch a scent beside the doubt

I’ve woken with and this still-steeping tea.

But when all’s said and done, that’s what I’ve got:

a foggy dream, this doubt, a morning hope

to hold alongside tea. (That line is not

a real insight: I wrote another trope.)

Stop. Breathe and smell, and sip my morning tea—

my anchor, thing that’s real. Thing to taste, see.

hayao miyazaki said it best:

“i’ve become skeptical of the unwritten rule that just because a boy and girl appear in the same feature, a romance must ensue. rather, i want to portray a slightly different relationship, one where the two mutually inspire each other to live—if i’m able to, then perhaps i’ll be closer to portraying a true expression of love.”

“once you have met someone, you never really forget them.”

love is inspiring the other person to reach their full potential, to coat their life in a little layer of hope and ambition, to steal a few of their thoughts and have them meander in your own thoughts as well.

romance isn't the precursor to love. sure it helps, but it's not fully indicative.

love is simply. pure happiness for another's sake, happiness that shakes and spins and spawns joy that makes you wish to live, to laugh more, to jump a little higher and smile a little brighter.

that is all. steady adoration and falling apart, but only to be whole with them once again.

not sure if any of this makes sense, but neither does love.

They used to live there,

but now they're starting to leave.

They are floating

being carried by the wind.

Some are free and whole

others are crumbled.

They are diverse.

An array of colors.

When they settle,

and they gather

pure joy is created.

The air is cool

and the sun begins to disappear quicker.

The things in nature

all around us

that give us air

lose their beautiful coat.

The coat that floats down

And is carried by the wind.

oh lover of the light do not despair

at day’s quick death in the winter air,

for what was summer’s kingly glow

is not defeated by winter’s snow

but only changed, and scattered far

into the points of a thousand stars:

the glitter of frost, the crystal gems

of ice that sparkle in all the glens,

the little candles in each window,

the glimmering icicles that grow

from every roof, and look at the sight,

of the silent, moonlit, icy midnight.

yes, this is winter, soft but bright;

do not despair, oh lover of the light.

of costumes and bones and tasty drinks

of colors of leaves evolving in sync.

of death and life in equal balance

some crops are growing, others vanish.

the season of tripping and scraping your knees

as you scramble for stranger's candies.

dressing up or dressing down

ghosts and goblins dancing with demons

blending in with humans for a night of fun

before they have to return

for another year.

when seasonal drinks start pouring

in clementine colors,

and coffee starts

painting your day.

when hot chocolate is only

a few steps away.

The world is full of crisp edges and muted sound. Sunlight reflects off of every surface, blindingly. My footsteps make little crunching sounds and my breath leaves little wispy clouds in the air that quickly fade away. A still figure with a lopsided hat and a wide button grin waves at me as I pass. Tiny streams of smoke leak out of chimneys. The world smells like warm chocolate and peppermints and spiced apples. A cold wind cuts through to my bones as I make my way toward my own cozy fireplace, a new book tucked under my arm to enjoy with a steaming mug of hot cocoa.

The drive is only supposed to take an hour, but traffic is bad today. Granted, traffic is always bad in the city, but today, it's especially bad.

We don't mind much, though -- in fact, the drive, despite being longer than normal, seems to fly by in minutes. We're drinking our Starbucks strawberry refreshers and listening to Marshall's "oldies" Spotify playlist, which is nearly entirely Beatles music. Marshall thinks he's John Lennon reincarnated.

Halfway through the drive, Bonnie pulls over to take the convertible top off, and when we start driving again, natures air conditioning tickles us, sending locks of hair flying back into tangles as we sing along to "Here Comes The Sun".

You can smell the beach before you get there, you know. I'm not sure if non-Californians would know that, but it's true. The air gets salty, and for a moment, you debate with yourself as to whether you're smelling the ocean or the sweat of homeless people camping out on Santa Monica Boulevard. You decide it's the smell of the ocean, since that's more romantic.

Parking is hell, like always, and the sand burns your feet as your trudge down to the waterline, ice chests and camp chairs behind you, surfboards marking your trail in the ground.

And then suddenly you're there, at the place where America meets the Pacific Ocean, which is surreal to think about, so you decide not to think about it for too long, and instead dip your toes into the icy cold water, ready to experience one of God's many gifts to the world.