the flicker of a moment dances in front of me, inviting the words to spill from my lips.
his eyes were desperate, needing me to explain why I didn’t want to love him. snowflakes dripped off my tongue as I told him I was sheltering my fragile glass heart.
the spanish night sang as a silhouette of affection settled in my breast. I didn’t realize that it was there until I was soaring in the clouds, thinking of him.
our love started small, just a tiny spark playing with the kindling. but as we all know, we never just settle for a peck on the cheek. it grew way too fast.
the affection in my chest was more than well-rooted. it sprouted it’s tender branches, grew stronger and stronger with each drop of kindness that fell from his lips. it grew ‘til it was not just affection. it was love.
a tree sprouted in my vapid soul. a fire burned in the winter called my body. we were melting together, our souls torn open, our minds singing like lovebirds, our imaginations teasing our bodies to love; despite the kilometers that would never be filled.
oh, he was heaven.
but even heaven becomes hell when you’re young and wild. the kilometers were becoming too many. distance and silence were thick in the room. it was poisoning my lungs, it bled into the tree. my breast, glass again. my soul, dark again.
snowflakes and ashes spilled off my lips when I told him. our fire was dead, and he didn’t see it. I broke his heart. I broke mine as well.
only time, patience, and glue can piece glass together. it took months upon months to come even close.
it was finally finished at camp. it seems an odd place, but that’s not it at all. campfire smoke danced into the star-lit sky. the full moon sang her midnight song, casting shadows on those who wouldn’t listen.
Starlight, Star-bright, I see a shooting star tonight! wish I may and wish I might, my wish already came true tonight.
all these moments flicker in front of me like the sparks on a firecracker. every passing moment, every single feeling, all well up inside us and translate into words.
this is what we are made of.
this is what poems are made of.