have you ever fallen out of love with yourself? the most heartbreaking heart break of all - looking at yourself and not remembering who it was that let you know your heart was on fire. for something. anything. do you ever wish to remember what made you who you are? the things, thoughts, feelings, that are (were) so inextricably intertwined with your soul that you never imagined losing the feeling of floating when a cool spring wind kissed your cheek “hello.” do you wish to remember the taste of the mountain coffee that made you so incredibly in awe of being alive that words began to dance between your ears, begging to be brought into eternity by your favorite black ink pen? do you miss her? i do. the wind’s hello is muted now - just, too cold.

and then the golden droplets of light - the rivers running through my window - they reminded me: we are not the same. we could be, but we will not, for your fear of letting the world see your heart will keep you from beauty.

to feel everything or nothing at all. (a version of to be, or not to be, in the terms of the colors echoing on the horizon and the coffee sitting in your cup). the question begins to fade as the concept of not marveling at every sunrise becomes a thought pictured in a foreign language that i no longer wish to understand.

feel it.

please let yourself feel absolutely all of it. how could you not notice your heart reaching for the stars when you stare at the blood red moon? how could you not long for your soul to shoot the breeze with this coolness nipping at the very tip of your ears, biting. teasing. commandingly pleading for you to come along. how could you not stand in awe of the steam mixing with the essence of the earth, fading into nothing, no, fading into everything in a moment more fleeting than time. how could you not let yourself love all of the things that make this world worth living in?

do you listen to the melodies that float languidly through the air? do you let the notes both anchor you to the moment and make your mind float somewhere: another world that eyes of this one are blind to. twisted greys and incoherent thoughts tangle in a mess of vines, growing as the day moves along. they crawl, yearning, but their despair is like the soft grip of a hand, pressing against your throat. angry, and in love.

“i dont know how to say this to you,” but the strums echo all of which would otherwise be left unsaid. words are powerful, and creative. but even greater is knowing how best you speak. how will you tell the moon that you love her, and you wish to take lessons on exactly how she best reflects the sun? how will you say to the girl with the wide blue eyes that her soul shines and the cracks in her shell just allow the light to paint angel hair on the walls of the room in which she cries? how will you acknowledge the leaves that dance in the breeze, knowing that the only purpose they serve is to live like nothing matters at all. but, everything does.

so will you say it?

(will you say the things that remind us that life is short but moments are long and we are meant to live them, both as if we will live forever, and die tomorrow).

an old man stands beside an

aged tripod;

years, gripping its feet

and tripping the camera

perched on its top.

“do you love me?”

the man asks the mountains.

silence;

peaks dripped in snowflakes,

blue shadows and sun-kissed trees,

leaves - fallen.

he smiles, and takes the picture.

in an old scrawl on the back

of the sepia tones,

“forever.”

the white flowers

perched on polished chestnut

whisper to the autumn leaves.

at long last

in those mountains

his words and sepia tones

will rest.

a voice, loved by time,

“home.”

when the stars swallow the sky

dark turns to light, just for a while.

ill dance the winter alone;

cold heart, cold hands,

on my throne.

time stands still,

and i wish you will.

but you never would,

you never could

so you can spin beneath the falling leaves

to remember where im home.

find me in the sunflower petals on your window sill.

coffee drifting from a kitchen with the counter stains;

if you miss me still,

miss me like the autumn breeze.

- forever running.

ive run far, into the mountains;

in the misty rain i will kiss the silence.

the moon rises in silver for one last game,

you hide and ill find you.

but time stands still,

and i wish you will.

but you never would,

you never could.

so you can spin beneath the falling leaves

to remember where im home.

find me in the sunflower petals on your window sill.

coffee drifting from a kitchen with the counter stains;

if you miss me still,

miss me like the autumn breeze.

- forever running.

she sits, cigarette hanging from her lips, in an old, red explorer (but what, really, is she exploring?). brunette strands brush the left side of her face; shes a mess, but thats okay. clouds fly furiously from her open window, zipping to and fro before fading away. frantic. gone.

the car.

old, worn, scratches and bumps only adding to the detail of its unheard story. its, “once, i ran over that curb,” its, “i saved her, because i love her, and they couldnt quite get my ribs back the same way,” its, “ive watched him grow up and i miss his carseat in the back, but now we fly, and as he smiles through his windblown hair, the miles become worth it. one more mile, every time.” the car coughs, perhaps from years of second-hand smoking; stage four lung cancer, and theres no going back now. its insides are yellowed and its car-smell is now a smoke-smell that no amount of air fresheners could truly “freshen-up.” and so, the car breaths its rasped breaths, its engine growling - only in frustration - for age is unescapable and everything ultimately comes to an end.

the light turns green, my eyes dart back to the road, 10 and 2. but out of the corner of my eye, i see the dancing smoke, and i swear the mighty explorers taillights crinkle slightly. eyes, smiling. a few brunette wisps wave.

and then she was gone.