one-hundred-fifty-six.

hands clasped in prayer,
right at the heart.
innocence and religious,
hoping something greater is listening,
somewhere above us,
hidden in the pink-grey clouds
at golden hour.

holding an opal crystal,
tracing a bracelet,
repeating an affirmation,
talking to the one you lost too soon.

whether organized or personalized,
hope is defined by the hopeful,
dreams by the dreamer
and wishes by the wishful.

alive, dead or in-between.

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one-hundred-fifty-two.

if the hand holding my house keys
sparkled with a wedding ring,
you would have been the first one
to call all your in-laws,
boasting with pride.
i have all but a marriage license,
and my space is now my sin;
your full-time embarrassment.

one-hundred-forty-two.

spending money and time
on a white gold never-ending circle,
a symbol of everlasting eternity,
wrapped around the finger
most connected to the heart,
should not be a one-sided
purchase or decision,
regardless of how big the diamond.

one-hundred-thirty-eight.

we’re like what happens when
you take the odds and ends
out of the fridge,
because your stomach is growling
and you need food.
you whip something up,
tossing in spices and oils
alongside unparalleled ingredients.
the combination doesn’t historically belong,
nor has it been seen in any cookbook
or instagram branded #foodporn.
but we’ve invented something that works,
better than any written recipe
could have ever suggested.
spicy, but sweet,
spontaneously savoury,
mild when we need to be.

one-hundred-thirty-six.

sometimes, familial love is like:
that dying plant on your desk.
you keep pricking off browned leaves,
re-potting it, nurturing it with new soil;
hoping it will eventually flourish,
like those picture-perfect greens,
like those picture-perfect scenes.

one-hundred-thirty-four.

ninety-nine per cent wearing a scowl and fitted dress pants.
elbows crushed, close quarters.
a belly aching with hunger,
dreams of quiet, antsy to be home.
hoping for dim lights, a candle.
then, there is that one per cent,
seeking locked eye contact;
once secured, a soft smile.

riding the rocket with the one in the red pants.

one-hundred-thirty.

why value yourself just on
your time spent at work
and undervalue those you love
for staying at home
to be with their seeds
as they grow into
sprouts and flowers?
why define work
as only what you feel is hard,
what keeps you up at night,
and roll your eyes at those you love
for losing sleep nurturing
their baby bird;
one they made with their own
flesh and blood?