These fertile scraps are a hodgepodge of miscellany.

What does it mean to nest a girl so deep inside a pond? To put her there & leave her, so that she might be found again? She reaches, this cast - stone being, with long slender arms. She gathers the minnows to her, but they are independent creatures. She sits & she waits & there is green within her hair - Slick patina - For this is what age looks like, in a pond. After I found the girl, I often went to see her, sometimes leaning so far over the pond that my face was floating there beside hers. I took a strange comfort from her eternal peacefulness, the way she simply let the minnows go & refused to fuss about the green in her hair. Escaping words & work, as I was, escaping the knots I had tied my life into, escaping the overwhelming sense that my future was uncertain, I found the girl's easy way with her own circumstances intoxicating. All I had to do was go & let her graces find me.

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Fueled by cheap whiskey & dark regrets.

Using all of the energy of their tiny hearts to stay afloat, looking out with their iridescent eyes. I was singing Disney tunes when the truth hit me like whiplash. I'll apologize if my snub stings. But you've painted glowworms in my eyes & the glitter spanning my nose feels like a mockery. The flames danced in the air as one person slid it on the table to the next, & the vanilla fragrance in the air, comforting me like the aroma of baking bread.
This time baby, I'll be bulletproof. The skies, the earth & I are kin. Everything will be better, one day.

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Don't worry ladies, we're still gentlemen under these fierce skins.

With your pearl hands & porcelain arms, thoughts ajar, poised to cajole the night not to black out the ambience of pinks & tangerines that tease the glass frames of my sliding doors, you'd step out to where there should be a veranda to meet on - but your feet would kiss only empty space. It’s still tempting now to leave the curtains open & hoard the dying shafts of halcyon sun setting syrupy, but bright clouds fade ; & our careful blades of silver, wrought to shred cold logic into blithe ribbons, can’t turn water to wine, can’t paint gold rainbows on hidden canvasses. & if we ever stopped, just to look, just to see what’s passing us by, we’d see just how much we’re missing out on. The thing is that we look past humanity until people are nothing but faces & figures & feelings. What we don’t realize is that we’re all humans, nothing, but, humans, who complicate enigmas & flummox ourselves. What we don’t realize is how simple we really are. We’re nothing but humans.

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I was only a girl of sixteen, but you were a boy of eleven.

It was spring & the garden beds in my front garden were bursting to life. I remember, I was embarrassed that you saw me in my school uniform that day. I was collecting letters from the mail box in the evening & you must have seen me. I dropped my letters on the side walk & you bent down & gathered them up for me. My heart froze & I remember I could see the reflection of my flowers in your eyes as you handed them back to me. Maybe you were coming back. I told him I was searching for a soccer ball. Oh my wind-swept haired boy. How I miss you. That night I thought maybe I'll grow up too. I realise now, that I won't. Now I still write to you, every weekend.
Please, write back. He was nothing but coffee-table sex & a fake smile.

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I wipe my nose with the back of my hand.

I think about how real you are & I wonder if you cry tears or something much more beautiful. I think about how if you look long enough, you can see the ugliness in beautiful things. I think about the stupid things that only make sense while they're happening; like inside jokes, like the ridiculous events in my dreams, like how loving you seemed like an okay idea at the time. I consider saying, "I think about how my dad disappointed me again." How I made sure the way I said goodnight to him was said in the bitchiest tone possible. How he sounded heartbroken when he said goodnight back. How I guilt tripped myself after he said that. How I always guilt trip myself over everything. I think about how I'm tangled in my headphones & in my other messes & about how the freckles on your shoulders suggest that your mind's all over the place, too. I think about the way pens give out & I wonder if I myself should give giving up a try. Sometimes I think about the boy who could always tell when I was high by my bloodshot, half closed eyes & my half working mind. He'd half laugh & I'd laugh too, but I only half understood why. Sometimes life depends on something as simple as a crack in the paint or the words that I don't (can't) say. I'm always this volcano, but sometimes I wonder when I'll finally explode.

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Pigeons had dropped their letters in the winter sky.

The other children said he had crazy eyes & made fun of how his mother dressed him & refused to understand why he liked strange colors & would not play with his toys. They misread his language & thought he conjured demons in the quiet glade where no birds sang. But the boy only shrugged & smiled quietly to himself at their puzzles. You see, he knew the gift of imperfection, its fierce magic & how to catch beauty & turn bad luck into an omen. They could not get used to the voices he heard, & were scared of the way his hands made music from plain air.
They could only write "I'm sorry" so many times before it no longer sound like words.

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He traced their faces with tiny delicate fingers.

Looking back now, I see the gray skies. I see what I left & why I left it behind. I've heard it all before ; to take your days one step at a time, not to jump ahead & never plan your life. I'll pull you under & drag you back.
Suffocate you in my so called love, crush your believes & hold you down. I thought that blissful death was upon me, but instead, I’m treading in an endless sea.

READ MORE - He traced their faces with tiny delicate fingers.