My soul is a sunflower blossoming yellow petals and bittersweet seeds that crackle under the tongue or the heat of the sun, its withering leaves brushing together mindlessly, like lost memories.
My body is a green stem that holds my sunflower soul skyward despite the presence of birds and the danger of breezes that might pull loose some crackly seeds at any moment, casting them to the dirt below.
maybe to grow maybe to grow
maybe to rest for a time in my hollow shadows we may never know
“The swiftest horse cannot overtake a word once spoken”
– Chinese Proverb
Be wary what leaves your lips in anger or in passion, for by fractions those words fashion your reality – for better or for worse, for worse or for better. Not a thing can be unaffected that is touched by these words once spoken.
Once silence is irreparably broken it can never be repaired without scars and you can never unmake words, Not with the swiftest or surest hand, Nor the tightest fist, Nor with the softest kisses laid across ears that cannot un-hear your words.
The heart heals itself like skin, suturing along its frayed lines, each stitch creating new scars so that even in health there remain traces of brokenness, faceless faces, stitched together smiles, a hollow reflection of what was once beautiful with eyes that will never look at you the same again.
A word once spoken does not collapse in the desert, bone tired and sweat drowned, nor does it cry out, legs mangled under the weight of racing the universe, chest heaving. It rises like hot air, borne from the earth into the clouds to rain a harsh and toxic rain over unsuspecting heads while you sit watching the rain in the distance, knowing what you have done.
There is always a time of night that is quietest, whether you are awake to hear sounds absence or whether you rest tucked beneath a comforting blanket of dreams. That is the moment when thoughts seem to linger longer in the spaces between dreams or nightmares or fantasies.
Though when the seas of sound part, for that one moment, my mind, whether awake or dreaming, cannot help but drift to you, to us, to those visions of the future that are too far away to seem real and too close for comfort, those visions that pause in the space between dreams and memory, forming a perfect future from the fragments of you, of us, of the walls we tore down to let each other in, and the shadows that stretch from the walls we are still working to climb.
The quiet is so deafening is that moment that I cannot help but to seek solace… but you are my solace and you are not beside me tonight. When I turn over in bed, my hands feel empty air and my eyes see nothing but a blinking green light at bedside with no late night context.
I check my phone and see you wished me a good night four hours ago, before the quiet and the tossing and turning. Before I woke, temples sweating and temple crumbled. I smile, hearing whispers in my ear in the tune of your voice and I roll over into a deep sleep, the subtle sounds of summer returning with the chirp of crickets and the soft hum of streetlight bulbs.
We are born with legs unequipped to ferry us through life and eyes drawn everywhere and nowhere taking in nothing and everything – lost in wonder and the joys of forgetting.
There were no beginnings and endings then and yet when we grow we cannot help but remark at how time flew by in a flurry of endings as our legs grew long, aching under the strain of pulling us skyward against the pull of the dirt we were born from crawled over walked on and will eventually return to.
Our backs slowly cave through our chest cavities under a gravity that 10 million years of history could not grow our spines strong enough to overcome.
We are born dying seeking whys and wondering at meanings, giving words to feelings and puzzling at the space between words, the emptiness between syllables growing within our chests until it becomes infinite, leaving us gasping for breaths, our backs bending through the soil and all our willows weeping.
Cherish each step on your unsteady legs and love your endings and beginnings, until you forget them completely and dwell in the woes and joys that exist beyond meaning in the spaces where forgetting and remembering merge, in the spaces where age and youth lose all meaning, in the spaces between your toes where the gravity presses the dirt against your bare skin, and you remember everything you once forgot.
The longest sunset pours over the world’s edges like a waterfall.
The horizon tries in vain to wrap its golden-yellow arms around every inch of the globe, dipping its hands in as many oceans and running its hands along the sides of as many mountains as it can reach. Even on this day, the other side of the mountain remains out of reach and the ocean only gives up some of its depths to horizon hands.
The shadows lengthen under the spectrum sunset in contradiction.
The shadows pace further from their homes on that day than on any other, their feet borne beyond the safety of their usual haunts, as if taunting the sunset at its inability to destroy the darkness. Even the shortest, the weakest, the brightest of nights is announced by the darkest of shadows. While the ground melts into nothingness, the sky is on fire.
Look up at the fire as though there is nothing else – to know you’re alive.