longslowclimb

in this yard, at this time of year, a person can't sit anywhere without being besieged with a drapery of yellow dust and crumbling pollen overcoat - pleats of cloth ribbing yellow and sullenly sweet - dusky, like how a woman's closet might smell, the lingering kiss of once having worn too much perfume. yellow flowers stage themselves in awkward angles of hair. the hum of bees is overwhelming, so that if you close your eyes and make a low song on your tongue, it will always, invariably, get lost in, or return to, that hum - that line of sound that means wings and air and flicking tongues and nectar droughts. the soft sound that when noticed b

dear god, i planted no tulips in autumn and no tulips came in spring. how silly of me, then to mourn the empty garden, to long for fields of amsterdam, to kneel at night in cold dirt, hands folded. i’ve learned there is a certain ache in lacking a thing never had, that small itch whose relief is two seasons past – so god, if you can hear me, know that i am homesick for amsterdam, whose name, like yours, i know but whose flowers i cannot see.

at 24 i was told by a 28 year old that my friends marriage would fail that i was too young to understand four years that's all just four years difference "but a lifetime of mine and a lifetime of yours they're so different! you can't say age is the only factor..." she didn't listen. turns out she's still learning just like me