This one and “april” really complement each other incredibly with the months of march and april and the two places Vancouver and Tribeca, and really I saw them as similar stories relived in different hues, modulations of the same themes, and I saw the love letter of each to the other like eyes within their eyes, as if they once stood opposite one another, and spoke colors to each other until their identity was the gray that was them ten ways together, and them ten ways apart.
It feels sacrilegious and heretical to do this, please forgive me if it’s too far from your truth in these, but I spliced some of those beautiful lines together like blue and orange torn out from green and purple:
wearing old skins
for the people we weren’t,
when we were younger.
it was march, then
i’d held the idea of you so close,
older eyes
(i can tell when you’re writing
he tells me.
you get this look in your eyes)
still-older thoughts
what happened to the children we were?
as if they were never there at all.
as if memory was nothing but imaginary.
as if the passing of time means waking
up in a new body,
over and over again.
(coming home
means returning to
relics; stores closed,
some intersection whose streetnames i didn’t know.)
over and over again.
somewhere in Tribeca,
a love letter to Vancouver, city of bridges:
“people very dear to me,
to see the indigo mountains
kiss the cerulean sky,
this season is for tulips
and this is everything;
i still have yet to remind myself
that i’m only a visitor.
(it was nothing at all and it’s dead weight i’ve been holding on
afraid to let go for so long)
and we diverge
over and over again.
the trees blush pink
in the sunset,
you turn the corner. i blink,
it’s april and snow still blankets the surrounding peaks.
(i used to dream of times like this)
it was the first time i’d seen you in nearly ten years.
boulevards bracketed by cherry blossoms, petals bursting in the pale spring sun.
i’d forgotten how you looked from afar.
like the april of Vancouver,
to the long march of Tribeca,
strange to think the scenery i grew up in was so different than theirs
This one and “april” really complement each other incredibly with the months of march and april and the two places Vancouver and Tribeca, and really I saw them as similar stories relived in different hues, modulations of the same themes, and I saw the love letter of each to the other like eyes within their eyes, as if they once stood opposite one another, and spoke colors to each other until their identity was the gray that was them ten ways together, and them ten ways apart.
It feels sacrilegious and heretical to do this, please forgive me if it’s too far from your truth in these, but I spliced some of those beautiful lines together like blue and orange torn out from green and purple:
wearing old skins
for the people we weren’t,
when we were younger.
it was march, then
i’d held the idea of you so close,
older eyes
(i can tell when you’re writing
he tells me.
you get this look in your eyes)
still-older thoughts
what happened to the children we were?
as if they were never there at all.
as if memory was nothing but imaginary.
as if the passing of time means waking
up in a new body,
over and over again.
(coming home
means returning to
relics; stores closed,
some intersection whose streetnames i didn’t know.)
over and over again.
somewhere in Tribeca,
a love letter to Vancouver, city of bridges:
“people very dear to me,
to see the indigo mountains
kiss the cerulean sky,
this season is for tulips
and this is everything;
i still have yet to remind myself
that i’m only a visitor.
(it was nothing at all and it’s dead weight i’ve been holding on
afraid to let go for so long)
and we diverge
over and over again.
the trees blush pink
in the sunset,
you turn the corner. i blink,
it’s april and snow still blankets the surrounding peaks.
(i used to dream of times like this)
it was the first time i’d seen you in nearly ten years.
boulevards bracketed by cherry blossoms, petals bursting in the pale spring sun.
i’d forgotten how you looked from afar.
like the april of Vancouver,
to the long march of Tribeca,
strange to think the scenery i grew up in was so different than theirs
(you get this look in your eyes
over and over again)
i’d held the idea of you so close
until i ‘earn’ it in some way
i refuse to let myself purchase things
as if love is the only proof that it happened
that anything ever happened at all
the roses still have yet to bloom
as always, with love. <3”
She calls herself gray,
as she plays with her colors,
when two strong spirits come too close
together
the clouds of June
framed by melting eluate
cloak her flowers
but the roses bloom beneath
like lightning clawing from the
collage of swatches
tendrils wandering
like students milling about
arcing at hard corners.
she is building the streets
with the names of her city
lost in a new body
at some inevitable intersection
seeing this look in your eyes
over and over again
old thoughts so strange to think
a single set of steps is all it takes
for the people we weren’t
to feel daylight again.
that love,
ever-happened!
like sorting two pigments,
the hand of the mountain,
from the sleeve of the sky.
faded images ever relieving
the flowers stamped last summer
that,
blink,
look again,
that vibrant look again,
see the colors swimming
under two reflections of a bridge
they cross together home
i don't know if there's anything else i can say except this was beautiful
as always, you're reading between my lines better than i ever could. maybe my only truth is the one made in your form, too.
I absolutely love mori point