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

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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

11. power lunch

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emergence of january.

somedays i hike in a dress. appearing like a business women marching to a forest. the twittering birds and tourists scattered along the path. power lunch tucked away. grateful i still have this sanctuary of escape. the rain heightens the greenery. the path to simplicity. i haul along my camera because of this intent necessity to create. to showcase something. something stomached. something to explicate. my pleasure with muddy soles.

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xoxo,

mute style

Fauna and Freedom

my book of dead and dying things. maybe i should write your name amongst the petals and leaves. the pressure of ink and synonyms for brooding. thinking. remembering. the placid whisper of northbound breeze. the sleeping fauna. the grasses teasing my knees. my shoulders master the weight of a week. weak. the kind of stem that bends with the strain of romanticizing. harder to overcome than the pressure against my hipbone. sit an interval. delay. blink the mounds of rock dust. swallow the scene. Continue reading