You Are Waiting In Between. Ans Meer-to The Ocean.

you are waiting in between. ans Meer- to the ocean.

excerpt? wip

things that could've been

for once i’m writing something pretty with no twists or crooked lines. this is what happened after all the pages went blank and all the endings happened in a way that was bearable. no one got left behind. no words left to say. just something simple, the spin of seasons from spring to summer to fall to winter and over again. it’s living with someone for years without ever getting tired of them. staring out the same window without thinking the view would be better somewhere else. maybe don’t call this love; call this contentment, being able to stay in one place in one house and one home. no poetry here in the ritual of every day life; hang the laundry out to dry, feed the animals and wash the dishes by hand. it’s talking to someone without screaming and whispering without still being too loud. say hope without being sarcastic. loving someone not because they saved you or because they were your hurricane heart, but because they made the pages fit together in a way that seemed reasonable. you could puzzle your logic out and it happened to be bearable. just this thought, even.

say hello to god for me if you find him in your patterns

10011 / 1 / 11010

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a love poem to the universe, beyond comprehension

how do you tell someone that without them you would be dead? without this i would be nothing. out of the entire world, i can only think of three things that saved me, and the universe is made of this in its entirety: flashing lights, the dark vastness and the endless possibility that lies within hope. you may be an atrophy lying on a white hospital bed. do you think the world is ever scared of its own existence lying restless in the middle of the night always tossing and turning in its bed of stars, it never stops rolling across the empty skies. always dreaming fitfully through the spaces. do you ever think like the world says “we are the thoughts some mind misplaces” are we accidental miracles not miracles catastrophes almost forgotten not forgotten misconceived for misconception. the world is larger than the girl. the girl still thinks like the world can hear her, crickets with broken wings and no violin strings to play. not everything is magic in this infinity, some are larger than others like this flower is faker than this flower is still realer than you. this bag is larger than the things inside it, it is a vessel or a container for what it holds but it is more. asks is there more is there more is there more said the girl when the universe answered said that can’t be all there is to this said there are no edges said the people assembled in the front row to watch the universe explode, behind a glass box that someone found to keep out radiation. you are a container and the universe said duly noted kept containing like it was supposed to, all the black matter anti-gravitrons particle accelerators science experiments, every paper mache volcano with mentos and diet coke it could remember, didn’t know it was larger than what it held inside it. couldn’t remember past the galaxies careening about laughing and screaming past each other or the flashing lights or the supernova or the little girl who wouldn’t let the crickets die in their own arthritic apathy because nobody wished for wishes any more and nobody asked but she did saying a list of things she had decided were true in the absence of anyone to tell her otherwise and the first thing was irrelevant because it was an important concept to know and the second one she couldn’t remember was a good excuse because everybody believed you and the third one was heartbreaking, beautiful and sad and it said that you are larger than the things inside you you are more than you contain added together even multiplied, the girl is smaller than the world and without this she would be dead and nobody quite understood what i meant when i said this saved me but the universe loved her for it, in its own way.

death is only the end if you assume the story is about you

in the pages of some published novel somewhere, you are the side character to someone else’s story. there is an entire world full of events you have absolutely nothing to do with and everything to do without. in this world you are present, but not a presence. you are unoccupied, a hollow body, someone else's bones. the remake of an old favourite story everyone's forgotten the words to. that old jingle from the car commercial nobody can quite remember? that's you. utterly unimportant and perpetually misremembered, playing in the background out of tune. right now your death may be tragic. it may also be the only part of the story about you. every murder mystery has to have a victim. every hero, an unrequited lover, a sidekick, the villain’s henchman, a best friend or stranger, the train conductor calling everything to a stop, the bartender, a woman crying on the sidewalk waiting for the bus, whoever came up with the story in the first place, the man that walks through the door at same time someone else is coming in and you only ever get a glimpse of their face-

chain of gold

love her for it, and in spite of it; for this she will love you. and of this, nameless in its entirety, something good will grow. do not doubt this. do not forget this. for anything, for everything, for this: love her love her love her.