skin like that is just begging to be touched.

we'll share an adventure and pretend it was all for the sake of art.

thrill me.

In wake of my death there will be no statue, no book to recall the life I lead or collection of sonnets to share my beliefs. There will be no crowds of candles or expensive bouquets in effort to weakly demonstrate affection for me or the radiance of my presence. Days will pass, close relatives and friends will move on. No one will sit idly by in green fields of sunflowers and think of my brown hair in the wind, nor my tongue upon the tip of my own nose in an effort to catch a snow flake. Life will continue with no more than the faintest of ripples for a minimal crowd, and I will face my fate and deeds with a full heart and the simplest of legacies.

But I know there's a boy who's in love with a sand box that has my name carved in to the side. I know that when he sits upon his swing set and stares at his mother watering daisies, the only time he can get her outside, he thinks of me and his yellow room and being an air plane for the first and likely only time ever. He will remember learning to use a paint brush, and having kisses to his cheek when his knee was skinned. He will remember someone who reminded him to wash his hands before eating and was so excited to see him that she twirled him in the air. He will know, for once in his life, that he was the most exciting thing about someone else's whole summer - that he is an important memory to a girl who will forever feel blessed to have met him despite his bitter shyness. He'll grow up, and either become or reject the life he was brought in to. He will leave his own, likely minuscule, legacy to leave behind one day - more than a decade after myself. I hope he knows how it feels to change someone's summer, to let someone be an air plane. I hope he knows we talk of him often. When we visit this summer to check up on him, he won't remember us exactly. He won't run to us, hugging us and screaming for joy the way we know he will secretly want to. He will smile shyly, wave politely, and go to his sand box. He will remember when the sand was fresh and we took our shoes off despite hating how it felt between our toes just so his sand could stay clean, and he will remember the wind upon his face the only time he could fly. That's enough. The day that I die, that will still be enough.

bye bye blackbird.

I live beneath skylines, my job is that of burning bridges. Broken cobblestone lines my way from here to anywhere else; my dreams are a Sepia tone of there's got to be better than this. I want to see the world and hold all my favorite possibilities in the palm of my hand. From a phoenix on my shoulder to a dolphin beneath my waist and every color of the ocean surrounding my adventure, I wish to taste fire and smell warm rain within a jungle that at any other point in my life would be terrifying. It's neither realistic nor what ever could've been expected, but say you'd be tempted to come along for the ride and I'll rest easy for the first night in months.

last chance to lose your keys

There's the warmest of bodies next to me and I am resting against the headboard of a bed I have not found comfort in for too long. The drapes are open and I wonder how many people are out there counting stars, wishing they were anywhere else with the warmest of bodies next to them. I know that I should be appreciative for the attention and the comfort, but I feel out of place and exhausted from the race taking place in my head - I can't block out images of a particular set of lips or a particularly crooked smile that I would kill to be the cause of once more before dying.

When he wakes he will be lonely. He will slide closer and pull me towards him, asking questions of where I've been and where I hope to go. He will whisper words of past lovers and how this morning was the best in a while, and I will daydream of one who knew when distance was best and the beauty of a simple sentence and the faintest of kisses. When it comes to words, less is more. And when it comes to love, I often choose the door.

buddy holly

there's a silhouette to be traced by your eyes, to be explored by your fingertips. there's the most innocent of moonlight to be met beneath, silk clouds rolling above the heads of two birds wishing for love but settling for less. there's warm breath and cold fingers - shaking with the anxiousness of a dozen unrealistic expectations. there's a shadow reaching out for another, a pair of chapped lips dancing with the softest of collar bones. there's no rooms for lambs nor time to hide beneath the wool of what your parents told you; two shadows meet for a dance and get lost beneath a tainted moonlight.