Wabi-Sabi

Ginger and cinnamon, freshly baked bread. No room for melancholy as I cook up a storm.

Up in the loft, the worn-out suitcase gathers dust, packed with cobblestone lanes, a merry street musician, a checklist.

So we grew up, stopped wishing on stars,  studied constellations instead. Idealist they say. Ideal?

Lets take the old streets but talk of new journeys, often together but sometimes alone.

Bring me your fire. I will burn and rise up. Rise to the sun and return with my own light.

Never the end Just a beginning, a bridge to another.

Afternoon lingering sunshine like poetry. A distant sun  yet warm enough.

Throw your shadows at my self and let them break the wall that I hold up brick by brick.

We often say  we are living life yet keep pondering  what it is about.

Life  passes by. What if  remains.

Talk. Write. About what hurts. The smile on your lips is saccharine.

Theirs was a town of paper Crumpled. Fragile. If only someone had tried to read the pages.

You sighed, "I don't have a story," your eyes playing with the constellations. You were a story.

Lets walk together in a line when we begin till we become one with no end points.

Take me to your season I have heard you bloom in autumn Forget to tell me your name As I fall for all the names you could be.

Dismayed, as they saw the last leaf out of the window, the eyes of the child  drifted off to the playground of leaves.

You call yourself happy I call you wise. When you nudge me with a mug of coffee I call that sunrise.

The little boy coloured outside the lines He knew of no boundaries. He had an edge that teachers could not understand.

Darling who stole your light? Why do you hug yourself so as if a word of spite  will steal your glow?

They laughed  at the blemishes I saw the grace that reflected someone's light.

Someday, someone left behind a gift. The box full of darkness, today I understand, was a friend not a foe.

Bury your sorrow  in the space between my ribs and listen  as my heart sings to you  in thunder

With eyes that saw beyond the obvious she sat beside the singing creek as her thoughts leaped right off the edge of the world.

It pounds on the walls. It thuds inside. It beats ...and is beaten black and blue.

Words are wind, my friend. Words are foe. We still write. Dream. Deceive.