the ramble

More things I learned in San Diego: take the risk.

Risk being embarrassed. Risk being hurt. Risk looking silly. It’s all okay – feeling silly, getting hurt. Especially when the alternative is not to get kissed.

It feels so freeing: letting go. Having no expectations. Not trying to make something happen, not trying to predict the future. Just trying to live wholly in today. Choosing to be vulnerable is also choosing to be free. Sometimes I forget.

A poem:

What’s the worst that could happen?
He says no. She says yes.
They say ha-ha-ha.
Who cares, really?

What’s the worst that could happen?
You fall. He doesn’t.
(It’s never about you anyway).
And, really, who cares?

What’s the best that could happen?
That sunset is less beautiful than the moment.
Your life changes.
For a minute. For an hour. Forever.

What’s the best that could happen?
You start to believe. Again.
A prayer is actually answered.
You care. Really.

Today it’s the best. Maybe tomorrow the worst.
But today is still the best.
So, on the subject of tomorrow…
Who cares, really?

After all, tomorrow takes care of itself.
But today is all yours.

I’m standing with my hands outstretched and empty.

In this room, acoustics magnify the silence:

I never knew your leaving was only the beginning,

Only my beginning.

I kiss the floor just because it’s there;

I punch the door just because it’s there;

I never knew that there were two kinds of angels,

No one told me.

The lights are way too bright here:

I can see all my flaws but none of yours.

You blind me, you blind me,

And you’re not even here.

I’m standing with my heart outstretched and empty

In this room where I Love You is the gunshot

That shatters, batters, breaks everything.

You broke everything.

The lights are way too bright here:

I can see all my flaws but none of yours.

You blind me, you blind me,

And you’re not even here.

I kiss the door just because it’s there;

I punch the floor just because it’s there;

I never knew what you did and didn’t mean,

No one told me.

The lights are way too bright here:

I can see all my flaws but none of yours.

You blind me, you blind me,

You blind me, you blind me,

Oh, god, unbind me.

You’re not even here.

However hard we try, still we are like sand.

I couldn’t hold you, hold on to you–

If I did want to, if I didn’t want to.

Eventually, you’re out of pocket.

Whatever I may want, still we are costumes.

Play acting when I wasn’t play acting;

Covered when I was so very naked.

Leaves come and go just as quickly.

Hereafter may I know that still I am a map:

To Always Never, Never Always–

Something to look at when you’re lost.

Because some things are not.

For me, you are a synonym
of the place where never is never,
thimbles are interchangeable with kisses
and this heart beats mine, for now.

I began as a thousand pieces,
a thousand laughs, I skipped
until I found you second light to the right
and followed straight on to morning.

You began as youth and joy
(but unhappy thoughts can bring anyone down)
until, like a sparrow, you drew near to me
to hear the story that will always belong to you.

For me, you are a synonym
for sand in a pocket of worn jeans.
You are my happy thought
and these words are for you, always-always.

A poem I might have posted before, but have decided to post again.

Oceans apart, we stand too close together,
My hand in your hand; your hand on my heart.
I may have your wishes wrapped up in my mind,
But it wanders and I wonder and you wonder at that.

Sidling up to the seas in exaggerated effort,
With the questions at hand it’s too hard to discern–
Am I here to drown my  sorrows in you
Or to drown us both in my sorrows?

In the morning I know what isn’t true;
At night I know so shakily what is.
And I ask myself another question:
Which is the bigger of two wrongs?

To break the promises I have and haven’t made,
Nip and kiss the lips of the loss,
Mix bitter and sweet for fairness,
Betray either side and be marked?

When over is done, will relief come–
Peace can shelter or shatter a girl.
When truth is told by the truthless,
Is it still truth?

Irony calls to the questioning mind,
With a smirk so familiar and contrived:
Rights that would have been wrongs three years past,
Oceans I swam without maps (my own volition)–
Still, by not choosing, I choose.