November 13, 2017

la reyna

"if i ever finish this book, i will dedicate it to you."

i wake up at six o'clock, and the light is just creamy enough to see by. it's may, like it always is in the old movies when the poppies come out and the apple trees hang low, frothing with green buds and virgin blossoms all dressed in rose. i curl my hands around the white sheets we washed yesterday, hung up to dry in the wind coming down off the mountain. there is no hurry. there is only time. slow, honeysuckle time.

i sit up, and watch the golden edge creep up the waist of huajatolla until she is fully dressed and i am fully awake, ready for the warmth of coffee and the sudden cold of the hardwood floor in the kitchen. she climbs up into my lap with a soft, milky purr and i scratch her just behind the ears. i know she likes that.

as i leave to make the coffee, she leaps off the bed to follow, and i look back. his chest is rising with the slow, evenness of his breath. there is no hurry today. only time. so i stand in the doorway barefoot, watching the shadow of the pine tree outside curl it's way around our window. she makes a sudden, loud noise, greeting the morning. and i see him yawn, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, rubbing the sunshine through his hair.

he looks at me, grinning at him.
he smiles.
so slow, and so sweet.
because there is only time.
slow, honeysuckle time.


i wake up at seven o'clock and hit the alarm before her pillow hits me from the top bunk. we both try to pull ourselves up, and i hear her murmuring the words to la reyna under her breath despite the cold.

i don't know if you're coming for me.
and i don't know what i'm waiting for,
but i'm waiting.
oh Lord, You know i'm still waiting.

and no matter how many words i fumble through, hurting and hurting and hurting, i am still hopeful. i know that nobody is promised somebody at the end of this. but i can't help feeling like tomorrow will be the day. or the next one after that. or maybe that one at the end of a long, beautiful string of days will be the day that brings

this room.
this room still smells like honeysuckle.

to m.
i stumbled across your notes. i'm not sure why they made me cry, but they did. this is only half of the ache you made me feel.

and to the beautiful olivia knight.
this is for all of those posts that turned out to be fictional.

October 11, 2017

then there is no reason left to be afraid

what will i lose by loving?
i murmured.

it murmured back.
but there is the possibility that it will hurt.

i can accept that.
it is a small price to pay
for something so important. 

it cautioned as i turned to leave
there is the possibility that you will not be loved in return.

that is not a problem.
i murmured.
as long as i can love.
what will i lose by loving?

it murmured back.

absolutely nothing.

thank you.
i breathed.
 i will set my hand to the plow
and i will love again.


has it really been so long? AAAHHH. love u peaches.

August 14, 2017

when you go

it was like walking back into a house you once lived in,
after finding it was sold.


i knocked anxiously on the door
and she greeted me with wide, laughing eyes.
come in. 
you used to live here?
that's incredible.
she had put pictures up on the walls, the kind with flowers and laughing people in them.
 why hadn't i thought of that?
but then, she meant to stay
and i had never felt that way.

we walked through all of the rooms,
looked into all of the corners,
and nothing was the same.
i was glad of that.
i was glad that nothing looked the same.
i was glad that i barely recognized it.

when i left, she put her hand on my arm.
and murmured
thank you.

and i heard what she did not say.

thank you for moving out
so that i could move in.
thank you for realizing that it was better
if you didn't stay.
thank you for
not coming back.

this is my home now
and you were never meant to live here.

he was waiting for me on the front porch,
and he had that lazy smile on. the one that spread over his face like 
raspberry marmalade.

you good?

i nodded.

good. you were brave. time for sandwiches.

i laughed, and we walked off, down the avenue and back to the road.
he had flowers in his pocket.
and i realized they were the last flowers i had planted at the old house,
before i left.
i pretended not to notice.
but i knew what it meant.

when you go
take your whole heart with you.


this smidge of writing was based off of healing, and the people that help you get there.

to the girl in the middle of cutting ties: 
my darling, it's okay. 
you need to do it. 
the love of Christ is mighty, and His mercy is tender. so you are free to go.

and when you go
take your whole heart with you.


August 3, 2017


it has been a privilege
to love you.

i sat in that truck bed and curved my spine against the metal.
when you know
you just know.

he tapped his hard knuckles against my heart and murmured
keep this soft.

she threw her brown arms around my neck and breathed
i'm going to love him even if he never loves back.

their bones creaked and their doors broke and they echoed
come rest here and be still.

and in the thunder, when the Face of the Almighty passed, i heard it whispered
oh, yes.
perfect love casts out fear
because in you
there will not be room for anything else.

and you.
i see you walking back up the road, where nobody else is going,
and i'm sorry.
because i burned some bridges, and tore up some crosswalks,
and flattened a highway
to say goodbye.

i had to.

i think maybe that's the wreck we're picking our way across,
trying to get back to the start.

but my dearest, this is not a goodbye. 
i'm going to let them in, and tell them to take off their shoes, and if they want to, i'll let them stay forever.
because i'm not too scared
to love again.
it's what He would do.

you'll be there too.
because you're mine.
and that's that.

and it has been a privilege
to love you.