ocean eyes

The words in my throat are stopping halfway on their way up to vomit on you because you’re silencing them with one blink of your ocean eyes.

Go ahead, slay me.

Calm my chaos with the caress of your hands, my heaving chest with the lullaby in your voice.

I’m hiding under the covers but your fingers find my tickle spots anyway. Past the angry colors of my day, beyond the ugly words spat at me, over, under my own uncertainties and insecurities; speaking of which, what are those? I’m forgetting all things, all sensations except your touch winding down my tummy, your lips pressed like a bow tie to my collarbone, a balm to my forehead, sweet, sweet creme to my tongue.

Your forehead on mine. Your lashes sweeping my cheekbones in snowflake-fashion, your scruff exfoliating my satin wall.

Slay me.

Your arms like tree branches wind up around me and soothe my hair into place, turn my face to the sunshine in your smile; and like a desert flower, I’m finding love thrives within difficulty.

With you even the thunder thrills me. Even the wind seizes my heart, and even the rain makes me laugh.




Creativity – you funny, whimsical thing. You play peekaboo with me, hiding under tables, behind chairs, over here, there, peeking over my shoulder, kissing my cheek. You are often invisible, but your giggle leaves a delightful trail behind you.

Sometimes I stare up at the ceiling watching you dazzle in the dripping condensation, and other times you brush past me as a child on roller-skates. Snatching my breath in one hand and clutching my heart in the other I run after you, but alas, I am limited to the ground.

I have learned to adore you in a series of serendipitous encounters; like a phantom lover I feel your presence so palpably at times that I converse with you, swim in the wise ripples of your hands, dive into the warm canyon of your hugs, and other times I dream of you; the glow of your laughter, the depth and width of your mind; that starry night I lay on my bedroom floor, the carpet soaking with grief, when you swung from your star in the sky, climbed through my window and fed me with words and a song. I still hear you hoisting yourself up, running on the rooftop, tumbling into my room; the night disappearing like a sigh.

You are a whisper that sweeps up behind me in the marketplace, then right through me like a billow. On your feet I dance for days, spinning in and out of consciousness.

I am mortal and you are bound to no dimension, so I listen, bow, respect. Whenever you come I am given a reason to live and whenever you leave I am given the moment to live it.


Boiling and electric, pulsing and clanging. Grasping and tightening, wringing and squeezing. I am a mongrel for love.

I long for a face to trace with my finger and lips to paint with my tongue; for a back to fold my thin frame into and hands to make love with.

I bore so easily these days; when one pursuer neglects me even for a moment I am drawn to another; some rough hands on a guitar, a pair of blue eyes beckoning across a shadowed room.

In the night when all is silent and my current lover is long asleep, I ask myself of my reasons, of what it is I am in such hot pursuit of.

If one face tires me and another body grows cold to mine, I must not be looking for touch, for taste.

I am a hole begging to be filled, begging to be worthy of being filled, begging for a chance to imagine it happening. I am desperate, even though I would never in the light of day claim to be so.

But you, you catch me off guard. You neither beg of me nor succumb to my spell. Your heart was lighting up a thousand souls until the moment I walked in, and now it only matters to me that you light up mine. Selfish, it seems, but if you only knew the chests of passion stored in my bosom, if you only tasted of the river trickling from my waterfall and if you only dived into the abyss of my ever-deepening heart, perhaps you would know how great my love can be for you.


The song of your laughter seeps into my ears like opium into my veins. On you I could overdose and never be injured.

I feel like a button beneath your thumb, like the muscle at the corner of your mouth; one motion from you and I burst alive.

I feel like a star being lassoed down from the sky, and as you pull me, your force is shaking the neighboring planets, the stardust, the cosmos. But what is love anyway if not something so enamoring and captivating that you lose your own sense of space, your own desire for freedom, the ability to control your own universe?

Suddenly it no longer matters who I am seeking to serve me; I no longer seek at all. My tastebuds for a soulmate have changed altogether; instead of desiring a person to cater to my appetite I desire a person who curbs it.

Maybe in between the grieving of a lost love and the sifting of men like pastry flour I have become familiar with the face of true Love. In my weakness I used men like dishrags to wipe up the emotional spills from my broken heart, and just as quickly threw them out with yesterday’s garbage.

But then I grew up, and then, you walked in.

You haven’t intended to let me see it, but your inner child shines and beckons me even in your glances, even in the way your hands move.

I never assumed I would be called to someone like you. You, with your great sad eyes, your stamped passport and that bucket of experience over your shoulder, those parcels of luggage trailing you. But in the time between using men as a dishrag and growing into womanhood, I have learned that love is not about what a person can do for me; how a person can make me feel. Love is about what a person draws out of me. And darling – when I am with you I feel the heart of God beating in me, beating for you. I love you not because of what you do for me but because of what you draw out of me, the love of God.

I see what everyone else sees. That effervescent smile, those drooping, beautiful blues, glimmering with otherworldly light. I hear what others hear: the laughter woven into the fabric of your voice, the flight in your footsteps; the life in your spoken words.

But I also hear the little voice that sometimes speaks up from your subconscious, doubting your pathway and questioning your abilities; those heavy sighs that escape your chest on the difficult days.

And behind the impressive man that you are, I see a child standing on a stage, alone, wonder-filled, believing in a dream much bigger than he; scared, triumphant, terrified, bold; alive to the complete spectrum of human emotion.

I see you.

And darling, I love what I see.


Yours wasn’t the first by a long shot.

Three strangers stopped me in my tracks; three strangers told me I’m beautiful since Wednesday.

And it’s Thursday.

You pulled me aside, said an awkward, “Excuse me,” and began the typical “I’m sure you get this all the time, but…”

And for some reason I didn’t believe you.

Maybe it’s because I was the ugly duckling growing up in a family of perfectly lovelies. Maybe it just proves that anyone can say anything, but unless you choose to believe them, it doesn’t matter.

I want to be the girl who laughs and doesn’t worry about her crooked teeth, imperfect skin and extra cushion on her middle. I want to be the girl who winks at herself in the mirror like, “Yeah, I’m that hottie.”

It’s just me out here in the backyard, burying my pain under the swings where I cried before, during, after puberty. You – you’re holding your breath while I dig up the dirt and throw in my pain, weeping, fading, obscure.

I want to forget that I ever hated myself.

Go ahead – lasso a pie-in-the-sky feeling from some star in the sky and pull it down for me so my fingers can knead it over, so my tongue can roll around in its taste.

The feeling you choose for me is like a clanging bell in my ear; I cannot hear the memory of my pain over the sound of it, this celebration of being alive.

I don’t care about my imperfections any more…I don’t even know they exist.

I exist, and that alone makes me perfect.

I’m fingering my own soul, snuggling up in my own skin, falling in love with the universe in my own eyes.

I have nothing but love for these aging bones, adoration for these bitten nails, tender kisses for my weathered skin.

The next time you whisper that I am beautiful, I will let the sun glitter through my smile, and I will agree.


So you see I am a mix of paradoxes, of impossibilities and possibilities rolled into one.

I want to have babies but I also want to travel the world.

I want a love story but I don’t want to cry.

I want a stage but I also want a house underground to hide from the bright lights.

I want to be skinny but tonight I’ll eat ice cream at midnight.

I want to wear whatever I want whenever I want, but all my kids are going to wear burkhas.

You better not try telling me what to do, and also I’ll never respect a pacifist.

Don’t take my wings from me but for the love of God give me a safe place to land.

I don’t want to come down from my sky castles, so just give me legs to stand on, roots from which I can extend my limbs.

I’ll keep your head above the clouds, in view of the sunshine, and you can keep my feet rooted into the earth, dirt between my toes.


Reaching down your throat, fishing for words, coming up with nothing. Again.

You feed me with your beautiful mouth and the stardust in your eyes and yet I am famished. Your words are as rare as diamonds under my pillow.

Desperately I assault you – pummeling your brain with questions, diving into your eye sockets for emotion, and finding packaged, polite replies.

Sanitized replies.

I’m a flower dying beneath the gaze of your sky – you, capable of quenching my thirst with a single drop of rain; one beautiful word. But you hesitate, mulling over the meanings and the submeanings and the maybes and the what ifs.

It’s true that once upon a time I longed for words and when that one wandering soul sensed my longing and saturated my stomach with delectable poison, I welcomed him. Words he didn’t mean, scribed in poetic form, serenaded with the voice of an angel, etched in the place between my soul and spirit; caught me off guard, scrambled themselves up my iron walls and climbed under the sheets with me. It’s also true that once upon a time I vomited up these same words, washing my mouth in acid just to erase the taste of them.

And yet the craving remains. Even with all the gagging and the throwing up and the stomach-twisting pain, I cannot forget the taste of the poison, I cannot relinquish the hope of tasting it again.

So I’m thinking maybe you’ll sense my craving if I spill it out into cyberspace.

Could we lie here amidst language without fear? Could we slice open our chests and could we let the words fall out and frolic with each other, this communing of souls, within the passion of our mouths, in between the dance of our hands?

Oh, darling. Maybe within these words we can build a haven for our thoughts, a shelter for our love, a playground for our stardust.