fabric.

if there was a humanitarian award for silence,

you might be the only recipient.

you are laced

with the experiences of others, a

professional at rummaging through the skeletons

of memories they've left behind.

and even though

you've chosen what to keep,

the lint of the unwanted piled lingers on

your 

sleeve. 

you've seen how joy illuminates

a person's eyes and you've been 

wearing it like an autumn sweater -

snug and without haste, like greeting an old friend.

your wardrobe consists of

quiet feelings, like relief

when you find someone you know in a 

crowd, and/or anticipation for

a new season

of your favourite show. you wear your hair

in bangs and a knot so you can meekly push

them out of your face when

you look

at the person you love.

but lately,

the lint has been building into fluffy little balls,

and your sweater is worn and patched.

you've come to realize that all things have

paid a price, yet the weariness you

hold in your eyes is

  f r e e

of charge.

flowers are something you press

be / tween

the pages of prose, but even

those have to dry up someday.

sadness is a face you left in

the unwanted pile, but its remnants

latched onto your shoulders,

and tore them down. 

your own secrets aren't really something you'd call

"interesting," so you store up another's and

save them for the lazy days.

but here's a thought:

what is life if you experience 

but a

frac

–––

tion

of it yourself? why appreciate spring and summer if 

autumn and winter don't 

follow suit?

what i'm trying to say is

we're all laced with sadness

but that is not the only fiber

of ~our~

being.

blue / red.

written for a friend, but just as significant in my life as it is hers. 

also, to the girl who is unsure of secrets, you deserve the humanitarian award too.

-kiss kiss kiss, o my soul-
{pea ess: if you want to listen to me reading this, go here.}