Hmmm Maybe Not Mr. Elton, But Mr. Knightley?

To learn that

one who speaks of

such that is different from their actions

is an idiot,

to entertain the notion

of facing you.

Why?

Who are you?

"To define is to limit," you say,

a smirk dancing on your lips.

It is because you know who you are, that you need someone to find out who that is.

For that is what it is

to be worthy of you.

Dear June, please be good to me.

Biblioteca Braidense by girlgoneabroad.

An Ode to Rays of Sun

Sweet, mellifluous rays of sunlight

seep through every crack, every seam

invading every crevice, every nook

until there is no space for night.

A million threads,

golden as fresh honey,

bright as a thousand suns,

tether me to the sky.

The shine of silk or velvet,

the beauty of a field of dandelions,

the yellow light,

sends a haze over everything,

obscuring all that is not good.

The morning is acissmus,

the night, a palimpsest.

Until you see the stars.

Oh, the stars deserve their own poem.

I cannot do them justice as a simple end to another.

How can one call themselves human without being enamored with the heavens?

Eyes

Eyes of flowing honey,

eyes of swirling ocean.

Is there really so much of a difference?

Both marred with scars,

painfully etched in over the years by family and friends and society itself.

A father filled with rage,

a mother who never wanted her.

One desperate to fit in with American society and one forever distancing herself from it.

One knowing nothing about himself and the other knowing everything about the both of them.

Yet, when their eyes meet all the scars seem to smooth over,

the raging sea calms,

the honey travels far from the fearsome bees of its past.

And, when they are inevitably torn apart?

HELLO, THIS

Alexander’s golden hair shone in the glass sunlight, a moment so perfect it seemed it could fracture at the smallest breath. His eyes looked like green crystals, flicks of blue emerging in the sun.

Alexander didn’t notice this, but Theo did, gazing up at the window. He looked back down at his tattered copy of the Iliad, wondering what book Alexander was reading. The sun was setting, making the world look like a haze of pink and purple. Theo looked at the cotton candy clouds, unaware that Alexander was looking right down at him, sitting on the bench next to the road. Alexander closed his book, Jane Austen’s Emma, and smiled a little half-smile, looking at the way the orange sky reflected off of Theo’s eyes. Those eyes flicked to his, Alexander turning away a few seconds too late, the grin disappearing from his face. Theo’s smile, on the other hand, only widened. Alexander chided himself for his incompetence and looked over at the door of his room, still seeing those gilded curls. He blinked quickly, trying to get them out of his vision. He looked back down at the sidewalk; the boy had gone from the wooden bench. He forced himself to look back at his book.