Lost journals are steps back home, like the mending of broken bones, like scars that act as patches to my soul, like the measurement marks on my mother’s wall that show just how much I’ve grown.
I chip and carve until I’m a corpse – a bone with no marrow, or a sparrow without wings, a vein without wings, a vein without blood, a puppet with no strings.
And the world seems just a little bit warmer, and the sun shines slightly brighter than it used to, and the days pass differently than before, and time is no longer stuck in a loop.
When winter withers – my bones begin to thaw, my lungs crackle as they expand, and the blood in my veins start to flow and I awaken from hibernation – hungry for happiness and eager to let go.
Your laughter sounds like a galactic symphony, your eyes shine magic like Saturn’s rings, and your golden hair flares like the sun. I smile as I rock the universe to sleep and sing of stars that twinkle deep within your dreams.
The sea calls to me – she promises to set me free, it’s tempting- losing myself in her vastness allowing her to swallow me whole, beckoning me to make her deep darkness my forever home.
Cider and candor and cranberry kisses, firelight dancing – lowered inhibitions, our eyes caught up in intimate moments, soaking in these cinnamon-spiced secrets.
