thought bubble

 

blood vessel veins spanning the climb. i scratched my notebook with illegible facts about the insides of our bodies. how my lungs sigh with the terrain. how they sigh heavy with unreturned feelings. my right hand sharpied  with the statement, “you choose the version of life without me.” actively. present tense. the sun is blazing the fundamental truth. grasping. that your heart. beat. beat. beat. beat. is temporary. and so is mine.

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Blowing Bubbles

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These rad bubble gum pink pants bring back my childhood. Cue nostalgia. The past few days I’ve been practicing mindfulness while hiking Griffith Park. The birds above and scratchy grasses of forging my individual pathways have been calming and inspiring. The pull of bright fabric amidst the force of nature. This abundance. This happy and carefree person that views herself in the sky.

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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

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

The Wind

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the sluggishness of the past week was colored by coffee shops, Bob Dylan, and writing one-sided love on the moon. comfort in lies she knew. her snug spilled milk sheets at noon. a song remaining in her mind. she was not a singer. but when she decided to sing, she bled Pocahontas colors of the wind. she escaped the sorrow that others rested upon her, a lacking of mutual awareness. she held the truth between her ticketed lips; love is not the jealously or entitlement that comes from a desperation for love in return. for her, one-sided love is fair. Continue reading