To Forget

I want to forget how he took my breath away, how we jumped off mountains and into waterfalls, how we ran the lengths of airstrips, and laughed until there was no oxygen left

I want to forget the magic of how we danced until midnight, of the sparkles in is his eyes, and the moonbeam in his smile. The shooting stars in my chest.

I want to forget his quick wit and sarcasm. How quickly he made me smile or roll my eyes. How he parted the clouds and let the sun in.

I want to forget our adventures out in space. How he took me to the moon, showed me the sun, and how we waltzed through asteroids.

Sometimes we stayed there for so long it felt like we’d always been there. Sometimes it felt like no time had passed at all.  Sometimes he left me there. Sometimes, he’d forget he brought me to the moo in the first place. Sometimes there wasn’t enough room in the shuttle. Sometimes he got tired and let me dance with the asteroids alone.

 I learned how to hide air in my pockets and pass the time counting stars. Sometimes I ran out of stars.

I want to forget the fireworks. I will always remember how beautiful they were when he handed them to me. The burst of colour was captivating and mesmerising, but I want to forget how I ignore the quiet burning. The smell of sulphur and iron. 

I want to forget how the shooting starts metamorphosed into jabs of pain. I laughed through it all. No big deal. Ignored the medicine, avoided the ER. It was nothing.

I want to forget that I was told not to move  for so long I burned from the sunlight and told myself I was just drunk on his magic.  I want to forget the stinging and peeling and the cycle repeating.

I want to forgive myself for telling myself  I was okay, I was fine. That this was normal. This was the down of our ups and it was fine. But it so much easier to forget.

Nonsensical to Hate

She cannot be confined

To a poem or a song.

She can’t be put in a box.

It’s not where she belongs.

Words cannot contain

Her spirit or effervescence.

She is early morning sunbeam,

A comfort, a presence.

She is a gentle brook,

Look how she ebbs and flows.

She is pure and clean,

Like a fresh patch of snow.

She is a blossoming joy,

A child’s innocent laughter.

Her smiles are truth,

Telling you that you matter.

She is carried by the wind,

Reigning the wings of fate.

She is so full of goodness;

Nonsensical to hate.

She brings a peace,

Wherever she goes.

She pulls you out

From your lowest of lows.

She is not fireworks

Or explosions, nor flashes.

Her exuberance is in

Rain puddle splashes.

She is meek and she is soft,

Barely above a whisper.

Count yourself lucky,

If you ever get to meet her.

His Daphne

“Come here,” he beaconed, laughing at me shivering, “you look like you’re about to go into hypothermic shock.”

It was a cold, rainy night; my favourite kind of evening. We were watching a film in the living room, sat on the couch. I was absolutely freezing. I scooted closer and fell into the space between his arms, ready to take up all his warmth.

Whenever I was exhausted, overhauled, overworked, and not even close to finished, he would tell me to give him my palms. He would paint my favourite sunsets on them and say, “The day can be long and hard, but the end is always beautiful.”

I could never wake up early enough to catch the sun. I slept through my alarms and woke up just in the nick of time. He was an early riser. So, he painted the sunrise on my eyes every morning. “This way,” he said, chuffed with himself, “we’ll both see the same thing when we first wake up.”

He planted flowers in my heart when the ground was cold and hard and unforgiving. He worked the soil until his roses and sunflowers and lilies and daisies and so much more grew healthy and strong. It was the daphnes that grew the strongest. He’s called me his daphne ever since.

Some nights, he’d write poetry on my arms. My legs covered in proses and roses. He’d give me the cosmos and the stars in my sleep. I would wake up with the entire universe on my back and planets in my hair.

He’d lull me to sleep; sing me ballads, choreograph dances. He would whispers epics and allegories and fairy tales until my eyes fell.

He is this warmth, this radiance, that never dims, never falters, no matter the storm. He is strong and beautiful and handsome; my Apollo. He is everything good in this world and my own.

But when he drew me close on that cold, rainy night, I felt his light slightly flickered. His warmth did not grow cold, but it will soon. His fire will be no match for ice that will not melt for him, no matter how much it tries.

Image: taken from Wikipedia

Almost Impossible to Describe

If you ever captured sunlight

and later hid it away,

If you’ve ever stole bits

and pieces of May,

If you’ve ever kept

your favourite part of the day,

Bargaining with Spring,

“Sit a while and stay.”

If you’ve ever capture a moment

and put it in a box

If you’ve ever kept pebbles

and sand and rocks,

If you’ve ever tried to

turn back the clocks,

Hiding away secret moments

in a drawer full of socks.

Then, maybe you’ll understand

The position in which she stands

Give her your hands

And listen as closely as you can.

She is almost impossible

to describe accurately

But let me try:

She is beyond prose or poetry

She cannot be contained

by metaphors or similes

She is simplicity

Not grand gestures

Or fireworks or firecrackers

She is a as secret, hidden lake

She is a dream dreamt whilst awake

So, for goodness and your own sake

Be wary of what she allows you to take

She is merely a whisper;

And you ought to always keep her

For she is faint and quiet,

So quiet, you just might miss her.