Only important things get written twice.

My days off are generally the same... drive somewhere... find wilderness. Sit in said wilderness. Write forever. Ignore everyone. Think about crying. Don't cry. Feel overwhelmed with good feelings. Consider writing poetry. Drink chai tea latte. Continue ignoring people. Love the earth. Wonder if I'm still much. Write on postcards. Wish I were better. Give thanks. Breathe deeply. Stretch. Pet a cat, somehow. Spend money. Drive home. Smile a lot. Go to sleep.


Something wild about how simple my life has become... something wild about how it's never the same day twice, even when I do the exact same things, talk to the same people, sleep in the same bed. You know why? The difference is a miracle, and a secret.

Christmas.

Truth be told, I don't remember what it was like loving you. Be that a blessing or a tragedy, I'm still uncertain. But what I do know is that sometimes, all we want is a specific "I'm sorry," one that can simply explain the pain, even if there's nothing we can do to take it away, erase me. Between us, it was the first after the end, the one that said in plain verse, directly and earnestly, "I'm sorry I couldn't appreciate you." A broken heart waited two years for words so clean. It made everything okay. And I'm sorry for bad words and madness, post-split poison and missing pieces, for not knowing how to forgive myself for you. We all hurt a little sometimes, and you were right, and I was always asking for it. There will always be a softness in my heart for you when I say your name, and for that I'm sorry I never knew quite how to love you. I miss your dad's laugh and your taste in music, the little sounds of unconditional patience and underrated experience. But in all of these shifting days, I don't know what else to do but raise up my hands to the sky and thank God we made it here.

I like the songs written in broken chords better, the ones with the choruses that just repeat a single name, that just cry out into the universe a chance for forgiveness.

I named this post Christmas because that is when I originally wrote this, and it's funny how much longer after the feelings actually caught up with the words, really. There is a season, turn, turn, turn. <3

And I think of Love, as something new...

My love and I

There is only stale jealousy between my lover and I, never quite active, at least not that I'm aware of. I'm only ever worried about my lovers big loves from before I even knew how to reach them, loves I have no way of touching or taking away, loves I know you could have loved forever if only she'd been just a little more patient and you just a little more aware that you could break a heart like Cinderella broke curfew, and your relationship just turned into smashed pumpkins after the crack of the bell. I'm thankful for this, in some way, in my way, in the way that the voice inside my head is more of an Alice than a Kate, the way that the words come so easily sometimes, and so painfully so much more often. There is something I'm thankful for in the way I wake up with my sister beside me and how it is a different kind of thankful when it is you. I know you might even have more to be jealous of, but where I hear the words and the same kind of love, just with a different one, I worry that this is not something I can live up to. I'm always worried I'm not enough woman to break a heart, not enough princess to sweep you off your feet, just a little too much youth to be taken seriously. The truth is, I've done my best and I love you as much as I never knew I would be capable of, in the big way that makes little girls dream about wedding dresses they may never wear but they're so sure of holding onto, the way that makes big girls sad when they can't make babies, the way you look at me when I know you mean it when you're not thinking about anything - just looking at me because you can and because you love me.

The truth is, I've done my best and that's my worry. There's this thing about humans, about how they don't know what they've got 'til it's gone, but maybe because humans don't understand disappearance, can't comprehend ends and stops and just over its. But I think about the way these things end and how hard it is and how much I never actually want to hold onto anything but that light in your eyes, keep it in jars on wooden bookshelves, like firefly collections. I think about how you loved her, and I know I don't have to  be that. But it would be nice for once in my life to realize I am loved and to just appreciate that being enough. You will always have another hole, another bruise, scars and stars and wasted pieces of paper and songs about girls I hope I never meet--- but I want you to know that in this moment I hope you understand that I hope I have you always, that I get to keep you, that you want to be that person in my poems, in my songs, in my prayers, praying with me, laughing with me, crying on beaches against big waves and knowing that the bugs in my eyelashes only like you.

Sometimes, it is all a little bit too much noise. My average work-day consists of so much noise and so many people and so many interactions, all of which I am grateful for. I just need, at the end of the day, that loving silence and to feel the pressure dissipate. Here we are.

I haven't been writing much because I can't handle my own noise. I can't deal with knowing there is this much going on in my head and that I haven't acknowledged a large portion of it. But in general, I'm feeling good. I just need a break.

Do you ever just miss dictionaries?