Bedtime Stories

Once upon a time, there lived a girl named August.

August loved her brown wristwatch that ticked the seconds by faster than the clock on her dashboard.  She loved things that were out of place and the wristwatch stood out more than your regular one.  She decided one day it was because she had found it in an antique shop.

Kevin worked the night shift at the antique shop.  It was a lovely place that was open 24 hours, because you’d be surprised how many people needed something old in the middle of the night.  One night, around three in the morning, the bell that hung from the front door of the shop rang out and Kevin lifted his head to find a girl walking in.  She was unlike any girl that Kevin had ever seen; with red hair to her waist and green eyes that reminded him of grass.  He stood dumbly for a moment before quickly coming to her aid.

August told Kevin that she had found her wristwatch in the store.  She went on to explain that she was looking for an identical one she might someday give to the person she cared most about.  Instead of strange, Kevin found this endearing and so they searched together for a matching wristwatch. 

Hours it took, wristwatches were searched; many like the one that August wore, but none that ticked the time the same.  August nearly threw the search into thin air when she noticed something shining on the counter of the shop.  She inquired of Kevin what the object was when Kevin fell silent, his eyes resting upon the same object. 

It was his watch, he replied and gingerly lifted an identical wristwatch into his palm.  August, stepping closer, asked if she could see it and the watch was exchanged into her hands.  Leveling the clock with her own, she found the time matched more perfectly than she could have ever imagined. 

She stared for a long while at the plated glass and wondered aloud to Kevin what it could possibly mean.  Lifting her green eyes to his blue ones, he replied that maybe instead of waiting for the time to come when she would find the person she cared most about, the time waited for her.   

What Am I?

I am many things.  

I am ignorant.  I am naive.  I am insightful and sensitive.  I'm morbid and terrible.  I'm beautiful and sinister and messy and a handful.  I'm a girl and an adult and color blind and sorry.  I'm jealous and forgiving and believable and homesick.

  

I guess I thought when I told you I was leaving that I wasn't contributing to my own disappearance.  I thought when I said that maybe it was my fault that I hadn't started it in the first place. 

We can point fingers and scribble names.  We can abdicate ourselves to the finest form of confinement and say that we are free.  We can tell each other that no matter the amount of miles between just the 'I' and the 'U', that I'll be closer to you than the original years.  

I am many things. 

To YOU, I am many things. 

I am a liar.  I am your closest friend.  I am a song writer and blog idiot. I am annoying and obsessive.  I'm so kind and so manipulative.  I am the only one who gets you and the one that you wish would leave sooner than I already am.

We can say goodbye a thousand times and never remember our hello's.  We can laugh for our tears and consider the times that we felt that nothing would come between us.  

I am many things.  

To YOU, I am many things.  

But if there is one thing I am not, it is sure. 

Dull The Sky, Dear City?

I don't get nights like these very often.
The kind of nights where you forget the world around you.
The kind of nights where you see something other than the way you felt.
I didn't realize I liked him until tonight.
I thought maybe we would be friends, but it turns out when you're afraid and when you grasp a hand in your own, feelings ensue.
I thought he might taste like vanilla coffee and his laugh would sound like the way I cried during the show, but in a wonderful way.
I thought that it is God's way of punishing me;
I've been in the state called "Heart Break" for far too long,
and the moment it fades, He'll set the stage for "Moving Away."
But it was a beautiful night.  And I felt my heart beating again.
The last few months, I'd been wondering if I was still alive.
So, I guess God is showing me that I'm still here.
And although it may be offensive to be called 'worldly'
or 'earthy', I've found that I've been closer to a boy considered both.
And the further from God I become, the more I miss Him,
But God, I think you'd like him.
He is remarkable.
He makes me feel like I can be myself.
This boy makes me feel like I can walk through the canyon at night and count the stars in not-so-dark sky because the city lights are bright after all.

 This 

Vs. 

This

North of July, South of Neverland

I don't remember last July.

I don't remember much about last summer, really.

I do remember that the fireworks were on the beach,

and that I accidentally told the truth

when I was supposed to tell a lie.

I remember that if I were to leave my heart

in a box beside your bed,

I would make it say: "Never fear the smoke."

Because waking up after the fireworks

means you always miss the show.

After all these years,

I still love every color.

After all these years,

I still don't like the sounds.

And I'll remember that we watched

an action movie when I wanted to sleep

and that I nearly drowned my sorrow in a literal river.

I guess when I think of humanity

and freedom, I see the graves.

There's so many who are dead,

for all of us who barely live.

So in this year of 'eighteen days till eighteen',  

I guess it is time to grow up.

Stop throwing poppers at my sister's feet.

Stop spelling my name in cursive

because sparklers run out too fast.

I guess it is time to say that maybe,

just maybe;

I want to run away to Neverland. 

I bet the Lost Boys have fireworks.   

Concerning the Moon and Time

My fingers won't press down on the keyboard,
because they know I will write something concerning you.
If they could talk,
if they could move,
my hands would stretch and skid as far from here
as possible.
Being attached to me means mourning over you.
I couldn't live without my fingers,
without my bones that twist and groan.
So for the sake of saving them,
I won't write about you.
I stopped thinking about you.
That is a lie.
Stop writing about him, now!
There was once a time,
I thought I was drowning.
The waves had churned me round and round
until I was unsure of which direction the sky was.
I remember thinking about you,
NO!
Because you once said that you
were the ocean,
because no matter what was lost during the day,
the moon always came out at night.
He was your only friend.
Please stop, Gentry.  You're making it worse.  
I wish I could be poetic,
and say things about people like Tennyson
or express feelings through verses like Shakespeare.
But I am just a girl,
with a head full of thoughts that never seem to come out right.
My keyboard must be broken,
or maybe my hands must have a mind of their own.
And yet here I am,
as fragmented as Time itself.
I am ticking backwards each moment,
into thoughts of you.

 

Move on.

Not even the moon can stop Time.

 

 

 

Wailing Wall

I read a book called 'The History of Love'.

But it wasn't about you and I. 

That's okay, though.

Nothing seems to be these days.

I guess you can't hear me over the wave of her sighs or the wind through her hair.

I guess you can't hear me over the way your favorite song is the one she showed to you.

 

I can't even hear myself through my thoughts of you.

These last few years that I've loved you have been like suffering from amnesia.

I've forgotten everything that matters because I thought you were all that did.

I wanted out of that prison called 'Loving You From a Distance",

but now I've gone to a prison of swipe, delete.

I guess everything really is forgotten after high school.

If you searched my heart for sentences, they would all be yours.

I would write them on a slip of paper,

and fly the sky to Jerusalem.

The Wailing Wall for lamentations of sorrow and grief.

For God to save our souls.

I'd write the things I never said to you.

Lined paper doesn't seem to fit.

I'd say something like, "I can't be your friend,"

or, "Nothing makes me happier and nothing makes me sadder than you."

I'd say, "I love you," and "I wish I didn't love you."

I'd say, "Goodbye."

Because there is never victory in goodbye.

There is only surrender.

So here I am; surrendering.

Like the Joshua James song: "Should have known, that they'd be right."

Because they were right when they said I should have given in a long time ago.

But I was and am so lucky to love you. 

I'm just not so fortunate to have you feel the same. 

Does anyone ever get what the want?

You still don't?

Does God hear me?

I thought you were the only one that did.

 

 

 

The Wailing Wall of Jerusalem.

Au Revoir

I guess this is it.
I set my alarm for six-thirty, even though God knows me well enough to snooze it until seven.
I cleaned my room like I was already leaving.  Maybe I am.
I looked up bridges in Paris, because I need to build a thousand bridges and get over them.
I listened to I Can't Make You Love Me for the millionth time and thought about how Ruby asked me to post a cover and I did.  I took it off.
I drank too much water before bed because I know if I wake up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, my dreams will be over sooner.
I wrote this. 
I wrote this for Mr. Nelson, because I never needed a reason to live until this year.
I wrote this for a boy that may think I have moved on.  Two years is a long time for loving someone who doesn't feel the same.
I wrote this for the dead, because it is Memorial Day.  And because if they were to give a title to this school year, it would be 'Remember'.
I wrote this for Alta June and for Heisenburg because I loved you both and wish I knew you better.  I know comments shouldn't mean more to me than the words I wrote for them, but they do. 
I wrote this for Joshua James and for Iceland. 
I wrote this for Simran, for India.  For the shoes I bought for graduation because my mom talked me into them.
I wrote this for the kids who are going to miss high school,
and for the ones who couldn't be more ready.
I wrote this for me. 
Because I'm not ready to face the real world.
I don't want to be married in my early twenties.
I don't want to be a stay at home mom,
or a steady member of a religion. 
I don't want to be something that can be found behind a desk or in the same house after fifteen years.
I don't want to watch 500 Days of Summer and cry because I can hardly relate to anyone more than Tom.
I don't want to hear Raoul say 'chocolates'.
I don't want to say goodbye.
Dear God, how I don't want to say goodbye.
To you.
To you.
To you.
I'm done with the hallways and with the traffic jams.
I'm done with inspirational quotes or 'reaching our peaks'.
I'm done with ceramic projects and teachers that could care less (except for you, Nelson).
I'm done fighting my own eyes from searching the halls for a familiar face.
Those things I can say goodbye to.
But when graduation is over, and you walk out that door, I'd be insane not to think about if I'll ever see you again. 
But cheers to us.
"We did it", if that is something people say.
And maybe you'll live an extraordinary life.
Maybe you will die in a car accident three years from today.
Maybe you'll have five beautiful children,
and a husband who couldn't be happier.
Maybe you'll get divorced.
But that doesn't matter to us now,
because those things haven't happened. 
So the best thing to say to you now, I suppose, is not even something I wrote.
Caution: Never ask me for advice.

"I'd die for you, but I couldn't, and wouldn't live for you." 


In the wise words of one musician: "You see, I thought that I was mighty, but the truth is I'm scared."

I'm scared.