21. siding with the river

held in the arms of spring. a coil. curled loosely around my ankles and sweeping my saturated and dry hair. sweat swims in the canyon alongside the rabbits. the loaves of bread baked and climbed as the sun grins wider. clicking through the machine at union station for the early ticket. riding in the dark until the first signs of day appear through the window. the shadows of palms, the morning traffic, the peach sky rising in the east. dribbles of juice in my eyelids. more steps. more strangers. lemon donut filling and strong coffee. mothers and children dressed in head to toe green. celebrate irish heritage. contortions. finding myself bent from daydreaming of somebody. limbs slouched and extended. wondering if he is ever thinking the same things. pressing wild flowers to my face. loving the decision to disappear for the day. until next time, riverside.

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xoxo,

mute style

19. summersaulting

*as you crunch down the last cinnamon apple chip you realized you love him. the sun on the floorboards warms the thought. your toes curl the wood as you rise on relave. the numb dust on the window pane sweeps the idea of a boy with a bear hug of hair at the end of these words. feelings are all hot air anyway. breathes better (released).

the last person to hold scissors to my hair was my south korean friend on my dining room floor. newspapered ink on my knees informed me of the politics of homecoming royalty. i rubbed the mistaken popularity from the ridges of my skin. and then i trimmed my hair in the fourth floor sink darkness with art scissors. rubbed my eyes raw and bloodshot in the mirror. a man died on the train less than twelve hours ago.

so i wound up amongst sleeping commuters and reconsidered thoughts. the fondness whittled at daybreak. a finalized disappearing act. lungs of lies. breathing breath. the perfect combination of solar and sea. struggling against an intimate stranger. desist debauchery. a whirlwind now within me. summersaulting rocks and other dangers of youthful heartbeats.

maybe it is because i didn’t cut the shoulder pads from this button down; with the pinstripes arranged as the memory of my family in our dining room with stenciled menus slurping  ice cream. maybe it is because the lighting is vampire dim in this restaurant; the fixtures swirled like a tim burton illustration. maybe it is becuase i am having trouble spelling because. the reason. the one that has a name. needs to be effaced.

xoxo,

mute style

13. bronze and beat

this was a mistake. my heart is like a squished stress ball. it’s not the cracks in a piñata ready for fun. more like the loops of a crochet shall filtering in the oceanic cold. i dipped my hair in fire expecting it to keep myself warm. as i glimpse the wind winged seagulls, i realize that i drift often to thought patterns with you arrowed in the forefront. mush that became liquified. and evaporated into the blueness of the sky. maybe i am the opposite of clever. maybe i am roasted air that rises. maybe i want somebody. maybe i still want that somebody to be you. whatever. does any of this matter? when families are torn apart and little girls aren’t eating. the world is suffering more than the flames of my head reading a collection of romantics.

xoxo,

mute style

07. rinsed

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5:08 p.m. pst sunday, january 8, 2017

i was told “no single riders.” like a wash bin full of mushy letters. soaked to the point of lost meaning. the motion of the ferriswheel halt. my eyes jumped bitter. don’t rock the carts. murmuring bushwa to the painted walls. my addition to the stories being written on this pier. my words will end up in bargain boxes with the cover art ruined by fifty percent off stickers. some disapproved isolation. my solitude is forced into corners and fed the leftover pigeon’s bread. my sister is four states away and my heart is hidden in the clouds. the muddy tide is right there. rinsed but never clean. the panic of living incorrectly. grab the hand of a stranger with a bubble gun and shoot my mind loud. somehow required to become shrill and unhappy. it’s only me, and that statement shouldn’t seem lonely.

xoxo,

mute style

05. seperation anxiety

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morning.

escaping the fire with a double steeped green tea and “i wrote this for you.” drifting to subtle guitar and storybook lyrics. cozy in forgetting. i thought of him today. but only briefly at 9 am. place those ideas in pockets with used tissues and pennies that cannot buy anything. listen to the fire engines and neighborhood alarms. simply sigh into the metal rails ironed to my spine. keep reading poems that i will quote when relevant.

-THE FLOOR TAKES SO LONG TO HIT-

Congratulations.

You took me down. And now, you have made everything that is sad, relevant.

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evening.

commotion. teasing stop lights. the click of shoes down pavement. my lips are full of peppered cars leaving taillights. a shaken mind. i’d ask for his affection. oh i’d seek it in bustling Friday nights with arms around waists. leading lovers to liquid satisfaction. i’d seek it in the hollow spaces between my fingers. this separation anxiety. tug my hair. pull it into a rope around my simple thoughts on love. the easiness to pour oneself empty for the enjoyment of another. cluster those feelings for you if demanded. but i think the dizziness of lights has me confused.

xoxo,

mute style