Back to 214th Street
- a life letter -
No. _

I don't even care what number

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We are time travelers
taking our powers for granted.

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words are bread crumbs
I leave at every stop
at every rest
at every drop
with every deep breath
in between destinations
in hope and regret
at cross roads
and altercations
with fate
with love
with everything
I've got and
everything I'm not
I leave these words
to you
for you

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the moonlight's breath dance on my skin,
like a soft whisper that raise the hairs
at the back of my neck --
lightning struck my nervous system.

I learned that

when you kiss a live wire out of a dare
with your depression,
it doesn't fry your brain.
it makes you love the currents that gives you flashes of

death are flowers blooming under
the radiant full moon.
a borrowed light, a borrowed life.
evanescent.

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The clay pot left in the rain, full to the brim, overflowing.
Paper boats sink, paper plane dives,
plastic cups with strings.
I held one of those.
I built one of those.
On nights like this where pictures stack
themselves into a neat pile of burning --
hell, wild fire tamed by blue flames.
They say I make sense when I'm not trying --
to leave me like this when I'm close to reaching --
the hands that once fed my skin with lies
holds devastation like a threat
to the universe- sal truth that I disagree with,
I am not crazy.
It's not a poem. Not even a story.
It's a memory with cracks and interlocking
puzzles forced together. Unmatched.
My voice, this is my voice but these
pictures, words, memories, are not mine.
This is not my memory.

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Loving you,
I took a leap of faith knowing full well it's suicide.
You were worth every strand of agony that surged through
these fragile nerves.
Your name,
like a sigh of hope from cold trembling lips
stole the breath out of my lungs.
Your tender embrace tightened the walls of my heart
emptying its chambers until I am nothing but a warm vessel
filled with the very essence of you.
You lived in me, love. And you will live in me forever.
The timelessness of this feeling is enough to see me through
the last page of this book, this story - mine from the beginning,
the middle, until the end.
Mine -- the words in between words;
the spaces, filled and empty;
the pristine and torn pages,
including the precious few that held your name.

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God made the sky blue to reflect
serenity in cool calming waves.
It's a gift for our mortal soul.

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You taught me how to build ruins.

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She's got these three things I admire in a person:
Knowledge (not information)
Wisdom (not forwarded ancient texts)
Faith (all seeing and not blind)

But she's got this one thing I respect above all, love of God.
And with that I am assured, her love is true and eternal.

She's a kick-ass smarty pants with books for guns,
wit for sword, and steel resolve for armour.
Don't mess with her.
She can play fire with fire but she'll probably use
a fire extinguisher. Told you, smart kid.
Kid until twenteen-nine (objections will not be entertained)

Happy two decades, love. We'll always be with you.
We love, love, love you. Au revoir.

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There it lies on the bed. An empty suitcase full of memories. She pondered for a moment, thinking of filling it with the remains of an expired relationship. Some old clothes, a travel ticket, baubles, an old map, rings and some trinkets; maybe then, the physical reminders would make the memories spill out of the suitcase and pour on the bed. What a way to part with the past. Let the ghost of a past love play on the sheets until the curtain of her thoughts close with a loud thud. No applause, just eerie silence and a deep cut. The imagination stung so she opted to close the suitcase. Tomorrow it would be out on the street for the weekly garbage pick-up.

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