Life's getting a bit crazy at the moment, but I'll find a way.
I'll wade through all the work, and push past all the pushy people, and try to make it all work. Wish me luck.
Till Next Time,
I Am From...I'm from the French Garden in Jonathan's Room,I Am From... by Surustu
To my own stifled closet full of Delia's jeans.
I'm from anything cooked in Georgia's home-style,
To fair food as heart-stopping as the carnival rides.
I'm from the swung speech of a Southerner's twang,
To the capricious talks of "redeeming reputations."
I'm from viewing a world with my Grandmother's eyes,
To painting the sights with my Aunt's hands.
I'm from silent nights spent in silent books,
To chattering pencils speaking scratchily on paper.
I'm from sidewalks colored like TV static,
To shoe ornaments on the wires dangling above them.
I'm from journeys taken by my brother's first steps,
To the days when the sun once baked my biscuit skin.
My Dear SonWith the clicks of the crowd's footstepsMy Dear Son by Surustu
Setting the rhythm for my restless heart,
I pressed onwards up the crosswalk
And wished to be elsewhere.
My thoughts were askew,
Like marbles on a tile floor.
But I promise I was sane.
Yet you were running,
As if completely gone from the world,
Not smiling, yet so carefree,
As your young little face hit my middle.
What a stoic child you were,
Not even gasping an "Ow"
When your pallid nose crinkled,
Before you peered to see your obstacle.
Your dulled-cobalt eyes saw me,
A mousy girl you'd never met before
Clad in, what else
A black turtleneck and an insulated smile.
Both of us stood listening-deer still.
Our magnetic filaments connected.
But it was I who moved first,
And buckled my knees to see you clearly.
Now our eyes soared
On the same plane -
Sky-blue reflecting in lake-blue,
As we properly held our stares.
But soon my chest throbbed,
And I drew you closer to me,
Nestling in your blonde clouds
While you drowned i
Love Letters On the TrainDear Stranger,Love Letters On the Train by RosaryOfSighsx
I'm leaving this post-it tucked in the side of the train-seat. If you're reading this, you've seen it. I've seen you sit here every few Monday mornings, sometimes tapping a bent, unlit cigarette against your thigh, sipping from your tea (who brings a tea cup onto a train anyway?); sometimes staring at the rain outside, or reading your well-worn, beaten copy of Jane Eyre (I hate that you fold the corners down - it's bibliophilic abuse. I wish the book would papercut you to defend itself a little, but I digress).
You seemed so sad this Monday morning past. Please smile again. I love it when your eyes catch the light of something I'm unaware of, something silently and intimately your own; a secret from the world that makes everything all the more meaningful to you.
- The Passenger
I'm not in the habit of reading post-its from strangers. I found a love-letter hidden in a newspaper once, that the author forgot or was too afraid to send. It made me sad to think