And maybe it will never
cease to amaze me
how you open your mouth and make
heaven someplace real
because love
(in the words of a six-year-old
who knows more of love
than I do
at night when the stars seem so lonesome)
is in the way they
say your name
you hear the word
(which isn't you in your entirety
because you can't be summed up in
more or less than nine letters
that you wear on tags
but is part of you that is
open and vulnerable to the world and still
hurts you when it's taken in vain)
and it just sounds safe in their mouth
Dear Santa –
I think you must be God with blue eyes. Do cookies make up for my sins?
And Santa, I think that it must snow in heaven, and that's why clouds are white: because we're underneath the snow piles. And that's why, when we lay in snow, we call ourselves angels.
And I'd just like to say that we've never fought a war over whether your name is Santa or St. Nicolas. In all the years, we've never marched a crusade to claim the North Pole. And Santa, no one leaves bombs wrapped in homemade paper with bows and ribbons curled with the edge of scissors, and little tags that say, "I love you enough to wrap this and worry that the corners are
It's hard not to slip when... by sweet-lyrical, literature
Literature
It's hard not to slip when...
He crunched forlornly through the snow, past the place where
we threw ourselves down,
arms open and worthy of heaven. And maybe, he
memorised the silhouette of my best attempt at angelhood,
and loved me one last time.
He saw the place where I slipped and slid into him, the
way we spent so many warmer nights,
in each others arms and losing ground. And maybe, he
heard the pounding of my footsteps at breakneck speed,
and my laughter ringing in the streets.
I was just fighting to make it to him.
He turned away.
And maybe, he finally realised,
through my skid marks and my falls from grace,
that I was loving him the best I could al
What scientists don't... by sweet-lyrical, literature
Literature
What scientists don't...
When I leave, I want you to know that
I'm dropping stars like breadcrumbs
like the Milky Way like
my own personal galaxy trailing from my fingertips.
(You are, after all, my sky, and I'll paint you with stardust if I want to.)
But far from possession, I want you to know that
I'm leaving you a path to me that I know you'll follow
like I'd follow you like
compulsion like
dedication like
the way your smile tugs my heartstrings like—
the fact that it's the only way we know how to exist.
(Honey, love's never been so pretty before us.)
I believe in the smell of new crayons
and bad knock-knock jokes,
and barefoot straw-hat summers. I believe in
the untapped power of conjuctions
and down-feather pillows,
and that maybe, rock bottom's just another kind of angelic encounter.
When there's nowhere to look but up---
that's when we meet eyes.
(And sometimes, I admit that I get restless down here,
because in my dreams I can fly; but then
I start believing in red dirt roads again
and skipping rocks
and grass stains. And I realise.
These things are all here on earth.
And maybe there's a reason God didn't give us wings.)
These days, I whisper goodnight moon before I go to sleep
and lullabies about trains.
These days.
I lock the door and put on my favourite dress
and spin in front of the mirror,
and put on lipstick just because. And I put sparkles on my eyes.
And there are sparkles in my eyes, again;
iridescence.
And there is glitter in my eyelashes.
I'm a princess from a faraway land, and I just don't know it, yet.
(I grew up, but then I learnt better.)
When I rewrite the bible... by sweet-lyrical, literature
Literature
When I rewrite the bible...
I think
everyone needs to be in love; I think
everyone needs someone to tell them they're amazing.
(Because sometimes, we forget that
we perform miracles
in the way we look at one another.)
(And really, I think we're all saints that way. And love
should be a religion; not the love of God, but the love of sunsets
and long eyelashes
and air guitar
and spy movies
and secret ticklish spots
and flavoured coffee. And then,
we could be pious in our kisses, and we would all believe in heaven.)
I'm addicted to fragments and
run-on sentences
and the phrase "fair enough"
(as in the world is never but we make do.)
And things like staying up too late and
falling asleep in class
keep me alive, and things like
saving earthworms from the sidewalk after it rains
and birds perched on telephone lines
keep me whole, and things like
the smell of laundry detergent and
cinnamon gum keep me hooked.
(I'm addicted to flavoured lipgloss and
kissing your cheek just to assure myself I'm close enough
and setting my alarm clock too early.
Because addictions are the habits you won't break.
Like running before I'm ready,
and stopping every