one of the last nights before moving

Now there are ghosts.
Tiny silver lights,
Dancing in front of my eyes.

They leave a silhouette ,
Something like fog on the windows,
Writing messages for me to see in the winter.

Little codes that can only be deciphered
By frost and ivory.

Miniature regrets I’d only want to read
When feeling sentimental.

Negligible truths that escape the ink and the paper.
Only to reveal themselves late at night
In the arms of familiar strangers.

And they spell out symphonies
Of all the things I should have done
I see the reason of it all
Painted on these faces;
Only to be revealed to me now.

Now that there is so little time.

written august 1st

I've only recently noticed the connection between this poem, and the blog below. Thought it'd be interesting to have them both on here...

-
File away every moment,
Keep tabs on the severity of the bruises per cheekbone,
Of the stretched skin around those pursed lips.
Document that one, lopsided ‘cool guy, who deserves a punch in the face’ smile.
File away the full length extension, that ‘lip-to-cheek, cheek-to-ear’ jackass grin.

In case of a brown haired beauty walking meekly sometime this fall,
Keep that little black book on hand in case you need it to preserve
The first leaf to fall on the scenery of your meeting.
Present it to her years later as the orchid signifying faith and consistency.
Chase her down the street screaming that you are not, in fact, crazy.

Freeze that potential, but not yet determined candle wax. The stuff from a hopefully frosty November night. If you‘re lucky enough to have a power outage, situate yourself with a stranger with silver eyes.

Stock up on birdcages. Trap and photograph every flutter from the waist up.
Nurture the sparrow of independence, teach it respectable virtues that will define it
Into the fastest falcon post-secondary education has ever seen.

Buy an aquarium, fill it with water, memories, and miscellanea.
Have a session with your metaphorical problems once a week in their prison like fish tank.
Do not encumber yourself with perfidious and trivial disputes. Save that for the birdcages.

Record the effectiveness of pretending to be insane, in order to become insane.

Blog 1, from March

I’ve just finished reading chapter 30 of About a Boy, by Nick Hornby. Will, one of the protagonists, has just had sex with Rachel, a girl whose redefined the way Will’s been able to look not only at female companionship, but also at his own life and the way he’s been living it before meeting her.

Will’s only experiencing a sense of natural euphoria now, in his mid 30’s; I’m not even sure if he realizes this. I’m not really sure if it matters.

What’s astounding though, is the moment. Will was so tethered to his first moment genuine happiness, that he was nearly tearful. I think that’s where the recognition of “the moment” started to settle in my mind like fog.

It’s these moments we have to cherish, it’s because of this moment I’m not going to finish this book just yet. I want to relish not only Will’s happiness, but my recognition in his happiness. I want to identify, shape, and express that recognition properly, before it slips away.

I’m not reading anymore because this is more than likely the climax of the book; it’s not just that though - it’s tangible. I can readily stretch out and grab the feelings emanating from Will. They don’t have a reason or an explanation to disappear yet, and I like it this way for now.

These are the moments I would like to put down the book of my life at, take a break to think over everything that’s just transpired. I wish it was possible to place a book mark carefully in there, nestle it lightly between the pages of euphoria and any disasters to follow; take a nice little break. It’d be nice to look at the book resting on an oak table, maybe light up a cigarette and inhale the time gratefully; like taking a healthy breather just before diving back into the novel of your life.