sweet-lyrical

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

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

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.)

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

.. last night I made a man out of pillows and forgotten fragments of clothes we'd pushed into my drawers. I held my pillow-man's hand and made sure he wasn't too warm because it is summer; I'm on the second floor; and that was always your biggest complaint. this morning I tried to shower but would turn off the water and run like a soapy dog, complete with loyal tail wagging, to the door thinking you'd come knocking. You hadn't. tomorrow will taste like the food of a week ago and I'll wear sunglasses, which, if you know me, (and you do) will seem out of context and like a little girl playing dress up. I know there are

And ( shhh ) I believe that if you are very quiet and still and still believing in stars That you will hear an empty memory, a soft song far away from the sea.