Colour My Words.

Small Things To Remember.

 The sweet perfume I used to wear when I met you. The time we colored our hair pink. Paint on our arms. Tripping on ice, letting go, falling. Catching yourself humming in the kitchen. The smell of freshly roasted coffee. Sweaty palms, shaky legs. Twinkly lights on a fall evening. Myriad of books still left to read. The moment you put on your sweater. Margaritas and nachos. Beginnings. Sometimes endings. The new CD we burned. The moment we licked the seal. The letter we sent. Right after. The moment we got the good news. Unstoppable twirling. Uncontrollable laughter. The Mad Libs story that ripped us apart. The moment you finished taking that picture. The moment you finished packing. Dotting the last sentence. The waiting. Water, water, water. The cobblestone streets. The stars, too.  

This Favorite Feeling.

The waking up at 8am to clean sheets. It is the sitting back down, the standing back up to my favorite songs. That Jamaican Red Rooibos tea. It is the phone call with my mom and my brother yelling obscenities in the background. It is my father's hilarious text messages. It is the "What are you doing?" "Come over". And also that one time we rode out bikes in the dead of night through obscure paths. It was all in the letting go on the handlebars. It is the subtly disgusting snapchats between friends. The going home after a long night. The rain puttering on outside the window. The little light they catch and ricochet. Swimming on a hot day and feeling like a child. It is board games and shits and giggles. Making coffee in the mornings. Getting to sit down on a porch right before the rest of the world is up. The slow grin that creeps when you're understood. It is sunsets after dessert. Hazelnut mousse cakes. The sound of pigeons in the afternoons. It is the windows open, the curtains flying. The running out the door without fishing for a jacket. It is staring at your hands. Making time for you. Making time for myself. It is the smell of new books. It is grass between my toes. The sand between my nails. The sun burning my back, the tan lines right after. It is empty coffee shops. It is the weariness after a run. My favorite Damien Rice song. The sound of a cat's rumble. Whole days of nothing, entire nights of everything. Stopping to smell the roses. Farmer's Markets. It is the waiting for that signal. It is the possibility of airports. Those empty dance floors to be occupied. It is the staring at the stars on clear nights. It is the fireflies nearby. Pockets of shade. It is hand through hair. The closing of your eyes. Demure smiles exchanged. The "fuck it" before we smile for real. 

An Insipid Little Drop of Water.

For a moment in time it seems as if we got picked up by the same bucket of water. The same tin can trapped us in this very pivotal instance of our lives. We could’ve been separated by millions of molecules, but this abyss found us bobbing in the same coordinate. And it couldn’t be helped; we shared in the joys, the laughs, and miseries alike.

Our properties the same, the same ice if cooled, the same vapor if heated. This little bucket right here is the home of all my feelings.

Somewhere in this change of state we realized, it takes much more happenstance to remain solid than just chemistry. It doesn’t mater if hydrogen and oxygen combine. We’d still be a liquid all our lives.

And I am mad with myself for wanting to become part of a bigger something-else. I think I’d rather be bobbing amongst waves, and carried from shore to shore. Maybe amidst the chaos I’d find myself closer to this ocean blue earth. 

Once poured we’re all insipid little drops of water once again.