Poems in Progress

“Summer Sun“

we spent july peaking into november
we promised to keep our love warm, even as the air turned cold
our first chapter would close, and a new one would begin
we looked above, at the leaves falling beneath our feet
and slowly we realized our love was not made for the frigid breeze of november the summer sun didn’t last,
and neither did we.
summer flings still sting in the fall

“Blind”

I can see their struggle,
and I know the words they need. I offer solutions,
a path through their darkness,
a way out of their pain.

But when it’s my turn,
the answers seem to vanish
they slip through my fingers,
lost in the noise of my own mind. I’m stuck in a maze,
unable to find the exit.

It’s strange,
how I can guide others with clarity,
but for myself,
I am blind.

“Morning Shower“

I turn the water up hotter
than anyone thinks I can stand,
letting the steam braid itself
through my hair before I step in.

I scrub in circles,
the same ones my mother used.
Shoulders, collarbone, wrists,
as if I can polish myself
into someone steadier.

I let the water hit my face last,
eyes closed,
pretending the world is quieter
than it ever really is.

And when I’m done,
I stay one breath longer,
because out there
I have to be ready,
and in here
I can still just be.

“Threaded Woman“

She is all angles and loops,
a body stitched from silver threads.
Air moves through her
as if she were never meant to hold it all.

Her hands reach,
though nothing waits for them,
and every twist of wire
is both fragile and unyielding—
a quiet defiance
made flesh in steel.

“The Rowboat”

They drift across the lake
in a small wooden boat,
the morning so still
the water seems afraid to breathe.

White fabric gathers at her knees,
soft as the mist rising around them,
while his steady rowing
barely ripples the silence.

Then the sky breaks open
a sudden, wild rain
pounding the surface
into trembling circles.

They shout through it,
words soaked in longing and anger,
the storm pulling the truth from them
as easily as it pulls the calm from the lake.

And somehow,
in all that rain,
they find each other again.

“A Slow Collecting”

Walking with friends
is how my life seems to go.
Never in a straight line,
never at just one pace.

Someone always lingers,
someone always speeds ahead,
and I’m the one drifting between them,
matching steps,
closing distance,
making sure no one feels
left behind.

We stop for small things.
A dog passing by,
a joke tossed into the air,
a leaf shaped like a heart.
It takes us forever
to get anywhere,
but that’s never really the point.

The world feels softer
when we move through it together,
side by side,
shoulders bumping,
conversation unraveling
and weaving itself back in.

I think my life is like that.
A slow collecting of people,
moments, voices.
A journey measured less
by where we end up
and more by who’s beside me
when we get there.

“Living Grief”

Is this what it feels like to watch somebody give up on you? 

To watch a love that was once so strong fade away 

into a mere grain of sand in our memory. 

Reaching out with hands so withered and weak,

only to watch the pages of our so called love story

disintegrate as we try to turn them.  

 Is this what it feels like to grieve someone who never died? 

 To sit in silence and watch as the person 

 I once said I was going to marry

 lay on couches with new lovers. 

 I don’t want to move on,

 I don’t want to turn the page, or end the chapter, 

 I want to stay the person I once was,

 the person you would’ve given anything for.  

 The person whom you loved so much, you let it consume you. 

Just as I did the same, I let you consume every thought I had, 

every step I took, It was all to keep your eyes on me. 

So no, I don’t want to turn the page, I don’t want to end the chapter,

 because what does that leave me with? 

A heart full of disintegrated words and promises? 

A mind full of memories bound to haunt my dreams? 

All it does is leave me lying on a beach made up of sand, 

where each grain feels like you. 

“April”

I miss April and the way you used to smile,

but now its directed at everyone but me

As if I am a reminder of a dark place, 

when you used to see me as a shiny trophy.  

Always shown off and loved. 

What happened to my sparkle? 

What happened to your glow? 

When did all your friends begin to see me as paint thinner, 

instead of a vibrant color that painted your eyes a crystal blue. 

Why do they now appear so gray when gazing into mine? 

Why am I the villain who put you in the doghouse

when all I asked for was to be loved, 

and not to wait in line behind your other lovers.

Holding my place like hope was something I could ration, 

I’d make my way to the front, just to be told to “try again tomorrow”.  

Finally I understand that the wait was the only thing you ever offered me.

Will my brow always be tied together in angst 

waiting for you to remember April, 

and how it felt to be chased by me. 

Now I sit on a dusty shelf with your other old trophies 

where I can hear your laughter and sly remarks, 

as they all slander my name 

Am I a ghost in these walls?

Does my voice have any dignity? 

Or is it as silent as you are when you brush past me in the halls. 

I was a secret you kept from their begging ears,

when they all wanted me around 

Am I human to them at all? 

To you? 

Of course not. 

I am January, 

“Manipulative and emotional and anxious.” 

Not the “perfect lie” you fell for in April 

and the longer I wait, the more I realize 

neither were you. 

“When Walls Fall”

I remember the quiet when you first touched my hand,
it felt like sunlight breaking through the storm’s command.

Your laugh lingered in corners I thought were mine alone,
a melody of hope, soft as a whispered tone.

I built walls from all the love I’d lost before,
but you came steady, knocking, and I opened the door.

Evenings stretched long, and the world held its breath,
each moment with you felt like life itself escaping death.

I feared the past would follow, clawing its way back,
but your presence rewrote the shadows, kept me on track.

Love isn’t fire that burns, but rivers that flow,
and with you, I finally know the meaning of letting go.

“The Life Waiting for Me”

This time last year was one like no other, 

I had only just began my new life

New places, new friends, new memories 

I began to dig my roots into the ground of this school, 

involving myself in as many things as possible 

I masked the things I truly felt, 

with name tags and tshirts for clubs I had joined 

I made myself forget about the pain I felt inside 

The pain of thinking I would never fall in love again 

I watched as the leaves fell, and couples cuddled up under blankets 

I made myself believe it wasn’t worth it, 

I made myself blind to the idea of falling in love 

Little did I know, in that very same semester

I would have the pleasure of meeting someone new

Someone who made me willing to learn their birthday, 

And their middle name, 

And the placement of every freckle on their face 

Someone who made love feel like warm sun, 

Sun that sprinkles through my curtains in the morning

And even now, I think back to last year

Of how I told everyone that love was not my thing. 

I laugh when I reminisce on the words I used to say 

The same girl who said she would never again fall in love, 

Is now the girl who spends empty moments thinking of the life waiting for her 

The life where I end up in a white gown, 

With 3 dogs, 

2 kids, 

Weekend trips to Elements 

And the most beautiful marriage. 

“Last Night, You Came Back”

Last night, you came back.
Soft as twilight slipping through the curtains.
Not quite solid,
but warmer than the cold air I’ve held
all these years.

 You smiled without words,
And for a moment, the world paused. 

 The clock forgot to tick,
and I reached out, but my hands
brushed only shadows.

 We walked without speaking,
through rooms I no longer recognized.
Where the walls hummed with memories
too fragile to hold.

 You touched my face,
a ghost’s breath.
And for a moment, I believed
you were more than a dream.
More than a whisper
In the quiet night.

 Then dawn pulled you away.
And I woke
with the weight of your absence,
Like a soft ache
beneath my ribs. 

“Suppose”

Suppose you step out of your old bedroom,
the one with the peeling wallpaper and the crooked ceiling fan,
and everyone you’ve ever called a friend
turns into a flock of pigeons that refuse to leave your porch.

You try to shoo them, but they only coo,
mocking the way you laughed at their jokes,
the way you bent yourself into shapes you didn’t know you had.

Now, imagine a bus, painted sky-blue,
pulling up to your curb at exactly midnight,
its doors opening into a forest where the trees hum your name.
You climb inside, and there,
sitting cross-legged, sipping tea from mugs that float
are people who do not stab, steal, or lie.

They hand you your own shadow back,
the one your old friends never let you keep,
and suddenly, laughter is not a trap,
but a door swinging wide.

Suppose you stayed in that bus forever,
and the pigeons waited on the porch,
but you no longer looked back,
because someone had finally shown you
what it means to be home in a human being.

“Where Hallways Turn to Art”

In the parts of my soul
where I once saw bleak, empty hallways,
you saw museums,
walls lined with the most exquisite artwork.

It made me happy
to realize I am not just an empty hallway
in the eyes of others,
only in the eyes of myself.

Over time,
I have begun to see paintings
appear on the walls
of the hallways I once thought barren.

And now,
that old view is fading,
slowly, quietly
transforming into something
far more beautiful
than I ever imagined.

“Ode to the Fixers”

Suppose we praise those whose hands mend what others leave behind,
who coax screws back into their homes,
who smooth jagged edges, tighten loose strings,
and restore small chaos into something that works.

They are the quiet heroes of scratched floors,
the magicians of misaligned hinges,
the sages of splintered furniture,
whose patience whispers louder than applause.

And here: imagine a clock they repair sprouting wings,
spinning around the room like a bird in a sunbeam,
every tick a tiny laugh, every tock a secret song,
the hammer hums a tune, the nails tap in rhythm,
and the world tilts slightly, grateful,
as if it has remembered how to breathe.

They teach us: care matters more than recognition,
restoring what is broken is an act of reverence,
and attention is a kind of love.
By fixing the small things, they remind us that life
is stitched together by patience, persistence, and hands willing to work,
and that beauty often grows in places we almost didn’t notice.

“The Koala’s Quiteness”

In the hush of eucalyptus, you cling,
a gray knot of fur and quiet wisdom,
nose black as night, eyes half-closed
against a sky that barely moves.

You gnaw the bitter leaves,
digesting toxins like secrets,
slowly, deliberately,
each bite a tiny ritual of survival.

Suppose you sleep a thousand hours a year:
and in dreams, you drift through forests
where branches bend to cradle you,
where the wind whispers only your name,
where the moon hangs low, luminous,
and even the leaves seem to sigh in approval.

You teach us patience,
how to move gently in a world that rushes,
how to savor the bitterness alongside the sweetness,
how stillness can be its own grace,
and how quiet observation is a kind of strength.

“Dear CC”

We swore we’d never try again,
both carrying pieces of old, heavy scars.
And yet here we are,
finding each other in the quiet spaces
we thought were forever closed.

You touch the corners of my soul
I thought would always ache,
healing cracks I believed were permanent,
turning broken light into something soft and warm.

I catch myself smiling
at the thought of your voice,
your hands, your laugh,
and I imagine a thousand ordinary mornings
woven into forever with you.

I want to see years stacked like letters
we’ll never throw away,
to trace your name in every corner of my life,
to hold you through storms and still feel safe.

You are calm and wild and home all at once,
a love I didn’t know I could trust again.
And every fractured piece of me
leans toward you,
just as you have leaned toward me.

“Late May”

I still search for you, 

in black cars and empty bars.

At crowded tables, and flower fields 

where we left our love without labels. 

In shooting stars, that I wish for you on, 

in hopes the universe will bring you back to me. 

But you see, you do not not search for me

in downtown shops, and white cars in passing. 

You merely view me as someone you can’t think about

without your heart and mind clashing. 

And as much as I hope

for our storyline to be reconnected someday, 

I think I will always be the girl

that you left in late May. 

“Emerging Love”

Light spills through the cracks of my chest,
a warmth I almost did not recognize.
I am not fully open,
yet something shifts,
a current tugging at the edges of my heart.

Shadows of old fears recede,
and I taste the air, sweet with possibility,
like rain on new grass,
like a song I almost forgot.

Hands reach toward one another,
fingers brushing, lingering,
learning the contour of desire.

Somewhere, a laugh drifts across the room,
its wings brushing my ribs,
and I know:
I am awake,
I am unfolding,
I am bending toward you,
letting the first light of love
spill through every seam.