That delicate little box you gave me,
I keep in the corner of my room
on the windowsill
where the sun dances —
illuminates the unguilty white wrapping
protects and keeps it warm.
Though the dust continues to settle,
the package remains as pure
as the blank page of a book
and as loyal as the sweetness to sugar.
I remember the day you held me tight
as you placed it in my hand, the covering
soft and thoughtful, my fingers
so unworthy to touch it.
You whispered in my ear.
I said nothing back.
Some things are too late.
Maybe tomorrow I will give it the love
that I never allowed you to know.
Maybe tomorrow I will dress it in bows.
A great work of art not only creates a sense of catharsis for the audience but also the creator. We may all be different individuals with unique stories, but we share the same sky — the same clouds. Our stories are one. There is not a single individual who doesn’t have room to grow.
Patch worked chamomile,
soft ripples soothe
my lips as I inhale
of an elated
Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe I live life too
enthralled in books and writing —
rifling through pages —
worn paper and ink —
searching for an answer.
Maybe that’s why I feel
there isn’t a resolution,
but maybe that’s the ending.
You move on.