Secret Spaces

If you live long enough in a city, you'll eventually find a bridge to Terabithia. Or at least some form of escape. I was thinking it was about time to leave this place. I've left a lot of memories in here for you. Hmm? Would I miss them?
 

You can't miss something that was never yours.

It's been quiet this week so I've been napping outside in the hammocks with the birds for company. The weather has been beautiful, but at the same time, irksome, making me intensely restless. Maybe because it already feels like summer when it is only March. I caught a whiff of the humid breeze floating through the porch window this evening when I got up to make some tea. Made me think about summers spent lying on the driveway looking for constellations while eating watermelon. Somehow, it all seems very far away. 

There (Where You Are)

Somewhere between these concrete walls, I can see a reflection of the waning moon against the panes of the darkening window. And clutched between my fingers, the letter from the you of another time. Secretly, I recite it every night. Every night of 10 years. Because once upon a time beneath the cherry blossom trees, there was the smell of blood and the sound of breaking bones reverberating inside my head. The unforgettable taste of iron and the gasp of punctured lungs. That must have been where it all began.  A time before I tried grasping at the ghostly lights and tendrils of smoke that still elude me. 

And somehow unintentionally, underneath these eyelids, the memories of you blur, trickle out and disappear.

Sleepy Hollow

"A place to run to, it's colder now. And in the same breath, we argue." 

Feeling the gravity of old and abandoned places filling your lungs. The crunch of frostbitten mud and Frost himself, walking through these very woods on a winter evening. He must have felt it. The same peace of mind. The same pull of buried bones that never seemed quite so near to the surface. 

 "It must be a sign of closeness, I guess."

City explorations. Sneak peak of my steadily growing teacup collection. Pink castle. I'd like to think that a princess use to live in those turrets and her beautiful things are still there, covered in an inch of dust. The door to her attic-room is hidden behind a bookcase and when you open the 2nd volume of the encyclopedia from the bottom-most shelf, there will be a shadow of a key imprinted on the pages and maybe some letters addressed to no one.

Spent yesterday afternoon at the horse farm G. works at and met some wonderful characters. Shado the dark knight. Cow-patterned Patche who loves peppermints. Angel who looks like a unicorn. And of course Lacey the shaggy palomino whom I hugged to keep warm. Despite the gloomy weather, dusk was beautiful. Standing on the hill with everyone, we watched as the last winter rays set the muddy fields aglow with fireflies. Breathtaking.

Couverture

Fat sparrows. Beef gnocchi. Japanese teacups. I think I am slowly running out of words and fairy dust because time stopped sometime in November. It must have restarted again because brown is my color for winter, lingering between Christmas chocolates and the woody texture of a December forest. Some things have quietly changed, but I hope my organs are still in the same place. There is nothing quite like a broken heart to rearrange your skeleton. I can't even scrub the smell of oranges from my wind-chapped fingers anymore. Been holed up like a squirrel reading books and fussing over symmetry and squares with cold hands and cold feet. Still, it feels good to be home.