"I Miss You."

"I miss you."

"It is easy to miss someone when you are lonely and the night is quiet. You crave company and companionship. You do not crave me."

I want to say

"Missing you is never easy."

I want to say

"I crave you always. It is you, always."

But instead I say,

"Yes, I miss you then. But I miss you most when I am surrounded by people and happiness. Because it is then my heart aches deepest with the knowledge that there is no one else I would rather share this joy with."

~ even in my dreams you do not respond (rewriting the conversation we never had)

When I am with you I forget who I am,

I am only who I can be.

And for a instant I do not mind being held.

For a moment existing is a pleasure,

For a moment I exist on purpose,

Not by mistake or on accident.

I don't know if all this wanting is supposed to have a point but I cannot help but give into it anyways.

If there is any greater joy in life than being desired by that which you too desire I do not know it. For what a miracle reciprocation is.

They tell me too many of my poems are about love these days, but they don't know that the kindest thing you have ever done for me is given me something else to write about

I don't know if you make me feel alive but you look at me like I exist, and I cannot help but marvel at the possibility that you might too recognize this phenomenon.

Sometimes I feel so ghost I am shocked that you are able to hold me outside of memory.

Sometimes when I cannot bear the bite of my own name on my tounge, I borrow yours.

Only for a while.

And I trust that you will not mind.

I trust that you will understand.

You always do.

~ If you told me that you loved me I would not believe you but it is still my only reoccurring dream

Oh to be loved the way she loves the dawn.

To be seen the way she sees the sunrise

To hold her the way she lets the light hold her.

-

And life is funny that way.

In the way she gave me the ability to speak, only to render me speechless so often.

In the way she gave me a voice, and a dread of using it.

The way she gave me all the words in the world, and feelings none of them could describe.

And life is funny that way.

In the way she sends me desire for those who will never desire me.

In the way she gives me a heart made of grasping palms and nothing to hold.

The way she shows me religion then baptizes me in doubt when I most need to trust in something other than myself. And in this way she keeps me close. For what do I have if I do not have her?

And life is funny that way.

In the way she gives me the world to write about and yet sends me poems about you over and over and over.

In the way she compels me to write about forever and eternity and the vastness of space, while hypnotizing me with my mortality on a heart string swaying in front of me always.

The way she asks me to write about love and gives me only tastes of it. Watches amused as I pen page after page trying to recreate a feast on paper. Trying to quench the ravenous appetite she left me with, only to witness me fail time and time again. Smiling as I go to bed starving.

And life is funny that way.

In the way she gives me the will and yet no way.

The way she teaches me how to want, but not how to have, not how to keep.

The way she makes it my deepest desire to be known completely and yet my greatest fear.

The way she gifts me already broken promises.

And life is funny that way

By which I mean

Life is a cruel mistress

And every piece of my shattered heart

Is hers

I had a dream that the king and the queen of a small country had a daughter. They needed a son, a first-born son, so in secret, without telling anyone of their child’s gender, they travelled to the nearby woods that were rumoured to house a witch.

They made a deal with that witch. They wanted a son, and they got one. A son, one made out of clay and wood, flexible enough to grow but sturdy enough to withstand its destined path, enchanted to look like a human child. The witch asked for only one thing, and that was for their daughter.

They left the girl readily.

The witch raised her as her own, and called her Thyme. The princess grew up unknowing of her heritage, grew up calling the witch Mama, and the witch did her very best to earn that title.

She was taught magic, and how to forage in the woods, how to build sturdy wooden structures and how to make the most delicious stews. The girl had a good life, and the witch was pleased.

The girl grew into a woman, and learned more and more powerful magics, grew stronger from hauling wood and stones and animals to cook, grew smarter as the witch taught her more.

She learned to deal with the people in the villages nearby, learned how to brew remedies and medicines and how to treat illness and injury, and learned how to tell when someone was lying. 

Every time the pair went into town, the people would remark at just how similar Thyme was to her mother. 

(Thyme does not know who and what she is. She does not know that she was born a princess, that she was sold. She only knows that one night after her mother read her a story about princesses and dragons, her mother had asked her if she ever wanted to be a princess.)

((Thyme only knows that she very quickly answered no. She likes being a witch, thank you very much, she likes the power that comes with it and the way that she can look at things and know their true nature.))

The witch starts preparing the ritual early, starts collecting the necessities in the winter so they can be ready by the fall equinox. Her daughter helps, and does not ask what this is for, just knows that it is important.

The witch looks at Thyme, both their hands raised into the air over a complicated array of plants, tended carefully to grow into a circle, and says, sorry.

Keep reading

You cannot hold the light

But that does not mean you cannot let it hold you

Surrder, darling

The caress of the sun is yours

Asking nothing in return

But that you rest in the warmth of its embrace

And if you wish

To reciprocate,

To give a little too,

Then open your heart,

And let the light in

- for what is more selfless than the dawn?