To Poetry (Pompously)

I want to write you a poem.
It shouldn't be so difficult, I've done it before.
Write what you know, write where you've been, write how you feel.

I've been the ingénue, seeking a taste of glamour and gambolling in rain-soaked frocks. Chasing epiphanies and waiting for the world to reveal the secret blueprints that must exist for existing. (A girl can dream.)
Once, I believed in balance, in rhyme-schemes, and trite paths to trivial endings.

My words had to change with me. To give voice to the edges of my thoughts-- the things that fit nowhere, but begged sweetly to be said aloud.
I bombarded you with ephemeral eloquence-- glimmers of finesse.

I almost became inured to the face-crumpling regret of routine tragedy. Almost.
And almost, I accepted my own place in that flawed tangle of rights, and wrongs, and very wrongs, and seemingly inevitables.
Almost.

The deluge... was a stream... was a trickle.
And what is left?

I fear sometimes that I have lost you. That you have waited, and languished in disuse.
That I will never be able to capture a scintilla of your essence on paper again.

But you are here.
In the lilting tangential lines I struggle to subdue into recognizable diction.
In the way I listen. Sifting through countless ragamuffin syllables tripping over teeth like puppies to sleep, tumbling head over heels for the sumptuous aural fragrance of a graceful phrase. Mooning over the vestigial remains of you on my tongue.
In the truth I force myself to tell.
I feel you.

Always your gossamer strands catch at me. A cobweb of now unravelled, unrivalled beauty.
In rapture I remain, a palimpsest-- a pastiche.
A patchwork girl with poetry in my hair.

Yours, Truly.

Roller Coasters

I'm never afraid of the things that I should be.

Spiders are artists. Loving parents, innovative engineers.They fascinate me.
Snakes are lovers looking for warmth. Composed of a single all-encompassing hug, just waiting to happen.

Fire plays on every sense. The heat caressing your skin, the crackle and hiss of a new log, the smell (oh the smell!). Fire smells like joy and childhood. Like dusky nights and freed secrets. Even cave-men saw it-- equal parts danger, practicality and beauty. I could stare at it for hours.

I love to be alone, I'm more afraid that I will never be allowed to love it without guilt.

Death is simply another place I have to go. 

Flying, falling, jumping, going...
They leave me elated; my nerves sparkling, and every breath I expel is victory set precariously on the edge--veering recklessly ever closer to laughter.
They also cause mothers everywhere to frown (as only mothers can).

You, I'm allowed to love. I guess your gaudy colours and flashing lights distract from your more nefarious possibilities. But despite them and, in part, because of them we flock to you.
What do you expect? I'm just an overqualified monkey-- an adrenaline junkie. I'm a moth to a flaming chariot. I'm a girl who loves to feel alive. To snub my nose at the incredulity of existence and let awareness flood every iota of being that I possess.

You give me all of that, when you can. But it's cold now, and I miss you.

Yours, Truly