Sharingyourthoughtscan
helpusimproveourebooks.We
wouldappreciateyourfeedback.Thank
you!
ForMichaelIloveyou,I
do—youhavemyword.
Youhaveallmywords.
Contents
IntroductionChapter1DuetChapter2InterludeChapter3
Finale
EncoreAcknowledgmentsAbouttheAuthorIndex
Introduction
“Amindpossessedbyunmadebooks.”
This line, taken from the
poem Lost Words byMichaelFaudet,illustratesmylifelongpreoccupationwith books. All artistshave a motive, a passionthat wills them to createthe things they do. Forme, it has always beenabout books. It alwayswillbe.
Itwas fromaveryyoungagethatIfellinlovewiththis wonderful artifact—the turn of the firstpage is almost like asacred ritual to me.Whenever I walk into alibrary,itisneverwithoutsomedegreeofreverence.
Over time, my love ofbooks spilled beyond thejoyofreadingandIbeganto dream of books filledwith my own words andpictures.
This dream turned toreality with thepublication of my first
book, Love &Misadventure, andcontinues now with thefollow-up, Lullabies,the very book you areholdinginyourhands.
I have always thoughtpoems were a little likespells—incantations that
areasoldastime.Thereisa certain quality towordsthat—when strung in acertain way—has analmost hypnotic effect.This combined with theuniversal theme of love,becomesevermorepotentandintoxicating.Afterall,what greater magic is
therethanlove?
I hope you enjoy readingLullabies as much as Ienjoyed putting ittogether.Iimagineittobea bedside table kind ofbook—hopefully, onethat you will pick up onsomewindy,restlessnight
and it will help sing youtosleep.
Though it has a start,middle, and end, you canbegin readingLullabiesfrom any page you wish.Some pieces will sing toyour present, others mayechoofyourpast,andthe
restcouldwhisperofyourfuture. Remember, whilethe words on these pagesremain static, this book—like all other books—is a living andbreathingthing.Muchlikea mirror reflecting itsever-changing landscape,Lullabiesisabookthat,
over time, will revealitselftoyouslowly.
MuchLove,Lang
LostWords
Amidnightscribble,
amorningsigh;
youwatchthewords
curlupanddie.
Madnesslives
insideyourhead,
ofpoemslost
andpagesdead.
Amindpossessed
byunmadebooks,
unwrittenlines
onemptyhooks.
—MichaelFaudet
Chapter1
Duet
Inbooksunread,weliebetween
theirpages.Astheyturnustoloverslikeseason’schanges.—EXCERPT
HerWords
Loveagirlwhowrites
andlivehermanylives;
youhaveyettofindher,
beneathherwordsofguise.
Kissherblue-inkedfingers,
forgivethepenstheymarked.
Thestainofyourlipsuponher—
theoneshe
can’tdiscard.
Forgethertatteredmemories,
orthepagesotherstook;
youarehereverafter—
theheroofherbook.
MyHeart
PerhapsIneverlovedenough,
IfonlyI’dlovedmuchmore;
Iwouldnotnearlyhadsomuch,
leftwaiting,foryouinstore.
IfIhadgivenawaymyheart—
tothosewhocamebefore;
itwouldbesaferleftinparts—
butnowyouhaveitall.
Metamorphosis
I am somebody else’sstory.Thegirlwhoservedtheir drink, the personthey pushed past on acrowded street, the onewho broke their heart. Ihavehappenedinsomanyplaces, tosomanypeople
—theessenceofmelivesoninthesenuances,thesemoments.
Yet never have I beenbolder or brighter than Iam with you. Not oncehave I ever felt so alive.Whatever vessel we pourourselves into, mine is
now overflowing,brimming with life. It istranscending intosomethingnew.
Hands are no longerhands. They are caresses.Mouths are no longermouths. They are kisses.My name is no longer aname, it is a call. And
love is no longer love—loveisyou.
When
Wheneverydream
hasturnedtodust,
andyourhighesthopes
nolongersoar.
Whenplacesyou
onceyearnedtosee,
growfurtheraway
ondistantshores.
Whenevery
nightyouclose
youreyes,andlong
insidefor
somethingmore.
Rememberthis
andonly
this,ifnothing
elseyoucan
recall—
Therewasalifeagirlonce
led,whereyou
werelovedthemostof
all.
Tsunamis
Be careful aboutgivingyourhearttooquickly,Iwastold.Boys only have one thingon their minds, theycautioned.
I don’t know if he truly
lovesme—how can I besure?Ican’tsaywithanyconviction that he won’tbreakmyheart—buthowcould I have stopped himfrom taking what wasalreadyhis?
He swept in like atsunami,waveafterwave,
and I didn’t stand achance. All thosewarnings, all the thingsthey tried to prepare mefor—lost in an instant—totheenormityofwhatIfelt.
ThoughtsofYou
There were times when Iwas with him and it wastoomuch.Doesthatmakesense? When someonestirsaworldofemotioninyouandit’ssointenseyoucan barely stand to be
withhim.
During those moments, Iwanted so desperately toleave—to go home,walkinto my bedroom, andshut the door behind me.Crawl into bed and laythere in the dark, tracingtheoutlineofmylipswith
my fingers—replayingeverything he said,everything we did. Iwanted to be left alone—withnothingotherthanmythoughtsofhim.
He’sLeaving
Mynineisyour
noon;
I’mjustpackingnow—
yourwinter,
myJune.
wishIcouldpackyou.
Patience
Patience andLove agreedtomeet at a set time andplace;beneaththetwenty-third tree in the oliveorchard. Patience arrivedpromptly andwaited. Shechecked her watch everyso often but still, there
wasnosignofLove.
Was it the twenty-thirdtreeorthefifty-sixth?Shewondered and decided tocheck,justincase.Asshemadeherwayover to thefifty-sixth tree, Lovearrived at twenty-three,where Patience wasnoticeablyabsent.
Love waited and waitedbefore deciding he musthave the wrong tree andperhaps it was anotherwheretheyweresupposedtomeet.
Meanwhile, Patience hadarrived at the fifty-sixthtree,whereLovewasstillnowheretobeseen.
Both begin to driftaimlesslyaroundtheoliveorchard, almost meetingbutneverdo.
Finally, Patience, whowas feeling lost andresigned, found herselfbeneath the same treewhere she began. Shestood there for barely a
minute when there was ataponhershoulder.
ItwasLove.
..................................
“Where are you?” Sheasked. “I have beensearchingallmylife.”“Stop looking for me,”
Love replied, “and I willfindyou.”
PassingTime
Ifeeltheendisdrawingnear,
wouldtimebesokindtoslow?
Youareeverythingto
me,mydear,youareall
Ireallyknow.
ButasIsitandwaitandfear
andwatchthehoursgo—
Everythingthathappenedhere
happenedlongago.
NoOther
There is someone I keepin my heart—I love himand no one else. It is alove that will only diewithme.
You may ask, deathcould be some time
away—what if fromnowtothen,youlovesomeonenew?
Well I can tell you, thereis only one love. If anyperson claims to havelovedtwiceinalltheirlife—they have not loved atall.
WellWishes
Mylove,areyouwell,
pasttheseaandtheswell,
outintheworld,wheredangerisfraught.
Amidstthedoomandthegloom,
andthehospitalrooms,
whereheartscanbebarteredandbought.
Therearewordstobetray
andthethingsthatwesay,
cansometimesbesnappyandshort.
Wherethe
strangerswemeet,
takeusdownonewaystreets,
andforgettingissomethingwe’retaught.
Where
earthquakeswillreign,
betweenterrorandplanes—
andcoldsaresoeasilycaught.
SadThings
Why do you writesad things? he asked.When I am here,whenIloveyou.
Because someday, in oneway or another, you willbetakenfrommeorIyou.
Itisinevitable.Butpleaseunderstand; from themoment I met you, Istopped writing for thepast.Inolongerwriteforthe present.When Iwritesad things, I am writingforthefuture.
APilgrimage
Alwaysseeking,each
momentfleeting;
thisiswhere
mysoulwillrest.
WithyouI’vefulfilled,
ourdestinedmeeting;
mytiredhand,
againstyourchest.
Thisistheheart,thatkeeps
minebeating—theseare
theeyesthatmine
knowbest.
LovingYou
I saw him the other day.His arms around anothergirl, his eyes when metwithmine—wereslowintheirrecognition.
IwonderifherememberswhatIoncetoldhim.
I will loveyouforever.
Hehadsmiledatmesadlybeforegivinghisreply.
But I am soafraid youmay one day
stop.
Now all these years later,Iamtheonewhoisafraid.BecauseIlovehim,Istilldo. I haven’t stopped. Idon’t think I can. I don’tthinkIeverwill.
And/Or
I once wrote a book andcalled itAnd/Or. It wasabout choosing betweeneither, or having theoptionofboth.
I’m not surewhy Iwroteit. Perhaps it had
somethingtodowithhowI looked at life. My lackof care. My indecision. Iwanted everythingbecause I didn’t wantanythingenough.
Then I met you and itchanged me. For once inmy life, there wassomething I wanted. So
much.
Forme,thatwasthedeathof theword,or; becausenow, there is no other. Itwas the end of the word,and;forIloveonlyyou.
Devotion
Heismoretome
thanI.
IlovehimmorethanIcan
bear.
Somuchat
timesIwishto
die,soIcan
endthisonahigh.
HisKiss
Hehasmeathiseverywhim;
everythingstartswithhim.
ToalltheboysIusedtokiss—
everything
stopswithhis.
Us
I love him and he lovesme.
We spend every momenttogether.Whensleeppartsus, we often meet in ourdreams.
I like to take naps
throughout the day.Likeacat,hesays.Heisacatperson.
He thinks my eyes arebeautiful and strange. Hehas never seen eyes likemineupclosebefore.
He says they look at him
withdaggerswhenhehasdone something wrong.Like when he forgets toorderolivesonmyhalfofthepizza.
He thinks I amespeciallycutewhenangry.
WeargueoverwhoseturnitistoputtheDVDinthe
player.Sometimesnoonewins and we end upwatching bad TV.Whichisneverreallyabadthing.
He never imagined hewould be with someonelikeme.
Now, he says, he can’timagine himself with
anyoneelse.
..................................
We’rekids,aren’twe?Yes, kids with grown-uppowers.
Signposts
What if certain peoplewere signposts in yourlife? Representations ofgood or bad. Like an oldfriend you see across acrowded street, one youwave hello to, beforehurryingon.Thelasttime
yousawthem,thingstooka turn for the worse and,as sad as it may seem,they have unwittinglybecome an omen—aprecursorofbadluck.
Or that onepersonwhomyou rarely speak with,who can alwaysbe found
rightwhereyouleftthem.Youcarrytheirsmilewithyou like a talisman—forwhatever reason, theirpresence in your life willalways bring the promiseofbetterdays.
Then there is theboyyoucan never stop thinking
about.Whenever you seehis name, it trips you up.Even if it’s one thatbelongs to many others,even if he belongs tosomeoneelse.
Youknowhe isasymbolof your weakness, yourKryptonite. How herushesinlikewildfireand
burns through everythingyou worked so hard tobuildsincehelastleftyouinashes.
So you do the only thingyou know how—you putasmanymilesasyoucanbetween him. As manyroadblocks and traffic
lights as you can gather.Thenyoubuildaboldredstop sign right on yourdoorstep, knowing all thestop signs in the worldcould never hold him—they can only ask himtostayawhile.
Mementos
Youwerenone,andnow
you’reall;yourworth
willrise,themoreI
fall.
Likethese
mementoswehave
stored,oncewere
things—nowso
muchmore.
Keys
Hearts don’t have locks,shesaid.
Some do, he replies.Therearepeoplewhogiveaway thekey to theirs forsafekeeping. Others aremistrustful and give outseveral keys, just in case.
Then there are thosewhohave misplaced them butnevercaredtolook.
What about your heart,sheasked.
Hesmiled.
Yourwordsarethekeytomine,hereplied.
Neverforgetyourwords.
DéjàVu
Isawitonce,Ihaveno
doubt;butnow
can’tplaceits
whereabouts.
Itrytothinkit,
timeandtime;
butwhatitis,
won’tcometomind.
Aword,ascent—
afeeling,
past.Itwillnot
show,though
muchI’veasked.
Andwhenitcomes,
Isoon
forget—thisishow
itfelt,whenwe
firstmet.
Clocks
Hereintime,youare
mine;myheart
hasnotsung
louder.
Idonotknow
whyIloveyouso—
theclockknowsnot
itshour.
Yetitisclear,toallthat’s
here,thattimeis
toldbyseeing.
Eventhough
clocksdonotknow,
itisthereason
fortheirbeing.
Lullabies
I barely know you, shesays, voice heavy withsleep. I don’t know yourfavoritecolororhowyoulike your coffee. Whatkeeps you up at night orthe lullabies thatsingyouto sleep. I don’t know a
thing about the first girlyou loved, why youstoppedlovingherorwhyyoustilldo.
I don’t know how manymillions of cells you aremade of and if they haveany idea they are part ofsomething so beautifulandunimaginablyperfect.
I may not have a clueaboutanyof these things,but this—she places herhandonhischest—thisIknow.
MessageinaBottle
No one truly knows whothey are, he sighs. Theglassbottledoesnotknowitsowncontents.Ithasnoideawhether it isavesselfor the most deliciousapple cider, a lovingly
crafted wine, or a bitterpoison. People are thesame. Yet like the bottle,we are transparent. Wecan’t see ourselves thewayothersseeus.
How do you seeme? sheasked.
You are a bottle floating
out at sea, he says. Onethat contains a veryimportantmessage.Itmaynever reach its recipient,but as long as there issomeone waiting, it willalwayshavepurpose.
Willyouwaitformine?
Iwill,hepromised. Iwill
look for you every time Istand at the edge of theocean.
You
TherearepeopleIwillneverknow
andtheirliveswillstillensue;
thosethatcouldhave
lovedmesoandI’ll
neverwonderwho.
Ofallthethingstocomeandgo,
thereisnooneelselikeyou.
ThethingsIneverthinkabout—
andtheonlythingIdo.
MorethanLove
Lovewascruel,asIstood
proud;heshowed
meyouandIwas
bowed.
Hedeftlydealt
hisswiftestblow—
Ifellfurtherthan,
Iwasmeanttogo.
Andheashamed,
ofwhathe’dcaused,
knewfromthen,
thatIwasyours.
Thathe,anecho
andyou,thesound—
Ilovedyoumore
thanloveallowed.
SecondChances
Thepathfromyouextending,
Icouldnotseeitscourse—
ortheclosertoyouIwasgetting,
thefurtherfromyouI’dwalked.
ForIwasmovinginacircle,
notalineasIhadthought—
thestepsItookawayfromyou,
weretakingmetowards.
APhoneCall
Wesaidhelloathalfpastone,
allourchoresforthemorningdone;
andaswespokeaboutour
day,theworld
begantofallaway.
Toourhighesthopesanddeepestfears,
ifIhadonewish,I’d
wishyouhere,
thetantrumsandthehorrorshows,
thestoriesonlyyouwouldknow.
Allthewhile
withthetickingclock,
laughingasifwe’dneverstop;
wesaidgoodnightathalfpastten—
atmidnightwesaidgood
nightagain.
Entwined
ThereisalineI’myetto
sever—itgoes
frommetoyou.
Therewasa
timeyouswore
forever,andIam
captivetoitspull.
Ifyouwerekind,
you’dcut
thetether—butImust
askyoutobecruel.
Stay
ThewordsIheard
fromyoutoday,
aresaidwhen
there’snothing
lefttosay.
WhatIwouldgive
tomakeyoustay,
Iwouldgiveit
allaway.
TheSeventhSea
Theanswerisyes,alwaysyes. I cannot deny youanything you ask. I willnotletyoubeartheagonyofnotknowing.
YesIloveyou,Iswearit.
On every grain of salt inthe ocean—on all mytears. I foundyouwhen Ireached the seventh sea,just as I had stoppedlooking.
It seems a lifetime agothat Ibegansearching foryou.
A lifetime of pain andsorrow. Ofdisappointment andmissedopportunities.
All I had hoped for. Allthe things I cannevergetback.
When I am with you, Iwantfornothing.
OverMyHead
Icounthisbreaths,
inhoursunslept,
againsthoursofhim,
Ihaveleft.
Withhimlyingthere,
withhimunaware,
Iamoutofmydepth.
IfMyLifeWereaDay
You are the momentbefore the sun sinks intothe horizon.The transientlight—the ephemeralhues set against thefading,fadingsky.
Until I am left only withthe moon to refract yourlight. And in yourabsence,thestarstoguideme—like a cosmicrunway—steadilyintothedark.
Chapter2
Interlude
Shewasdifferentfrom
anything
hehadeverknown.—THE
PROFESSOR
Nostalgia
Do you remember ourfirst day? The fog liftedand all around us weretrees linking hands, likechildrenplaying.
Our first night,when youstood by the door,conflicted, as I sat there
with my knees tuckedunder my chin, andsmiling.
Then rainbows archingover and the mostbeautiful sunsets I haveeverseen.
How the wind howls asthe sea whispers, Imiss
you.
Comebacktome.
TheProfessor
A streak of light flashesacross the sky. Thickheavyraindropspoundtheuneven dirt floor, litteredwith dried leaves andtwigs.Shefollowscloselybehind him, clutching an
odd contraption—arectangular deviceattached with a long,squiggly, antenna. “Youwere right about thestorm, Professor!” sheyells over the howlingwind.“Yes,myassistant!”he cries, voice chargedwith excitement, as he
holds up the long, metalconductor. She stumblesover a log as he reachesouttocatchher.
They tumble on the drygrass laughing. He tossesaside the bent, silver coathanger,wrappinghisarmsaround her waist. Thelittle transistor radio falls
fromherhands.
Thesunpeeksthroughthetreetops.
She thinks of their firstconversation. “I live by aforest,”hesaid,describingitinsuchawaythatwhenshe came to scale thosecrooked,windingstairs, it
waslikeshehadseenitathousandtimesbefore.Asif it had always beenthere,waiting towelcomeher.Likethepretty,sunlitroom that remainedunfurnished,sittingemptyin his house, now filledwith her paints andbrushes.
ShewouldfondlycallhimherFrankenstein,thismanwho was a patchwork ofallthethingsshehadeverlonged for. He gave hersuch gifts—not the kindthatwereputinboxes,butthesortthatfilledherwithimagination, breathingindescribable happiness
into her life.One day, hebuilt her a greenhouse.“So you can create yourlittle monstrous plants,”heexplained.
He showed her how tocatch the stray butterfliesthat fluttered from theirelusive neighbors, whowere rumored to farm
them for cosmetic use.She would listen inmorbid fascination as hedescribed how thehelpless insects werecruelly dismembered,before their fragile wingswere crushed and groundintoa finepowder.“Yourlipswould look beautiful,painted with butterfly
wings,” he would teaseher.
“Never!” she’d cry,alarmed.
They spentmuch of theirdays alone, in theirpeaceful sanctuary, apartfromthe littlevisitorwhocameonweekends.When
theweatherwasgood,thethree of them wouldventureout,pastthewornjetty and picnic on theirlittle beach. He wouldwatch them proudly,marveling at the startlingcontrast between the twothings he loved most inthe world. His son withhairofspungold,playing
at his favorite rock pooland chattering animatedlyinhissingsongvoice.She,with a small, amusedsmile on her tiny lips,raven hair tousled by thesea wind. She wasdifferentfromanythinghehadeverknown.
TheDinnerGuest
The wine, sipped tooquickly, has gone to myhead. I watch the wayyour hands move as youtellyour jokeand laughalittletooloudlywhenyoudeliverthepunchline.
Hiseyesflashatmefromacrossthetable.Thesamedisapproving lookheshotme earlier, as I wasgettingdressed.
It’sabittight.
Don’tberidiculous,Isay.
How do you know him,
again?
Just an old friend. Weworked together yearsago.
He clears his throat,breaking my reverie. Mygrin fades into a small,restrainedsmile.
Youtopuphisglass.
The conversation driftsintostocksandbonds.Mymind begins to wander,likeaboredschoolgirl.
Your hand brushes myleg.
Wasitanaccident?Ilook
at you questioningly, butyou are staring straightahead, engrossed inconversation.
Then there it is again.Very deliberately, restingonmyknee.
Oh,yourhands.
They slide up my thighandundermyskirt,lightlyskimmingthefabricofmypanties.
It’sbeensolong.
I part my legs under thetable.
The conversation turns to
politics.
Amirroreffect,yousay.
He looks confused.What’sthisaboutmirrors?
The word sends a joltthroughmybody.
Your hand slips into my
panties.
Vania
VaniaZouravliov, that’s hisname!Myfavoriteartist.Iwantedhisbookthat time. . . very badly, in fact. Itippedmylittlecoinpurseupside down and countedallmymoney.Iwasshort
twentydollars!
She lies on her stomachby the fire with hersketchpad open, lazypencil strokes lining thepaper with each flick ofherwrist.
Oh, poor you, he sayssympathetically. Do you
know what, sweetheart,we’llgetyouthatbook.
Thanks, baby. She smilesathim then returns tohersketching.
I’ll tell you how, hecontinues, snapping hislaptopshut.
She looks up, bemused.Pencil down, chinpropped in hand. I’mlist-en-ing, she says inasingsongvoice.
Okay, sohere’swhat youdo. You go into thebookstore and you buy acheap paperback novel.
Smile sweetly and makesmall talkwiththepeopleattheregister.Turnonthecharm, just like the wayyoudowhenyou’retryingto flogme your sketches.“Hey look! I just drewthese.Whatdoyouthink?D’youwannabuythem?”
Shegiggles.
Then, he says, afteryou’ve finished paying,wander over towhere thebookis,pickitupandflipthrough it, looking as ifyou didn’t have a care intheworld.
He lets out a small
chuckle,leaningforward.
Thenmydear,yougetasclose as you can to theentrance withoutattracting anyattention. And… youbolt!Asfastasyoucan,downtheescaperoutethatwe would have planned
the day before. I’ll be inthecarwaitingsoassoonasyoujumpin,I’llputmyfoot down,hard, on theaccelerator, speed off tosomewhere quiet beforewe stop and I’ll look atyou and say, Can youbelieveyoudidthat?Howdoesitfeel?Andyou’llbe
sitting there, youradrenaline pumping, yourheart racing, hugging thebook against your chest,saying, “Oh my God! Ican’t believe I just didthat!” Then do you knowwhatI’ddo?
What—would—you
—do? she says betweenpealsoflaughter.
I’dtakeyouout,fuckyouupagainstthecar.
Dumplings
Herimpatienthandsworkslowly.
Likethis,shesays.
Then you dip your fingerintheeggyolk.
Put it between the sheet
andpressitdownfirmly.
She watches as hefumbles.
Thelittlepocketofpastryisforeigninhishands.
She reaches out, placinghers on either side of hisface. Pulling him towards
her, she kisses himwarmly.
This is why I loveyou.
The sides of his face arewhite from her flour-coatedhands.
Itmakesherlaugh.
Ifonlyyoucouldseeyourself the way Ido.
Hesmilessheepishly.
Yours are so pretty, hesays.
He puts down the oddlyshapeddumpling.
And picks up anothersheetofpastry.
TheGarden
Thecurtain,asmokygraycolor, drops from thecreamy white ceiling.Crawling with strangebugs and eight-leggedcreatures, from where anominousfanwhirs.
His hand reaches for the
cord. A string of shiny,black beads that glistenagainst the bright, earlyeveningsun.
Flashback to the time hefound her in the garden.White cotton dress pulleduparoundher thighs, feetblackened by the rich,lushearththatshehadjust
been turning. With anapologeticsmilethatsaid,Icouldn’thelpmyself.
ThatNight
Itwasoneof thosenightsthatyouarenotaltogethersure really did happen.Therearenophotographs,no receipts, no scrawledjournalentries.
Justthememorysittinginmy mind, like a half-
blown dandelion, waitingto be fractured,dismembered. Waiting todisintegrateintonothing.
As I close my eyes, thepicturesplay likeablurrymontage. I can see usdrivingforhours,untilthestreet signs grew less
familiar—the flickeringlamplightsgivingawaytostars. Then sitting acrossfrom you in that quiet,little Italian place. Yourhands pushing the platesaside, reaching across formine.
Theconversationswehad
about everything andnothing.Andkissingyou.HowIrememberthat.
Itwasoneof thosenightsthatmymindstillcan’tbesureof.Thatwonders if Iwas ever there at all. Yetinmyheart,itisasthoughI’veneverleft.
Chapter3
Finale
Theygaveusyears,
thoughmanyago;
thespringcriestears—thewinter,snow.
—MELANCHOLYSKIES
ThreeQuestions
What was it like tolove him? askedGratitude.It was like beingexhumed, I answered.And brought to life in aflashofbrilliance.
What was it like tobe loved in return?askedJoy.It was like being seenafteraperpetualdarkness,I replied. To be heardafteralifetimeofsilence.
What was it like tolose him? asked
Sorrow.There was a long pausebeforeIresponded:
It was like hearing everygood-bye ever said tome—saidallatonce.
Acceptance
TherearethingsImiss
thatIshouldn’t,
andthoseIdon’t
thatIshould.
Sometimeswewant
whatwecouldn’t—
sometimeswelove
whowecould.
FadingPolaroid
My eyeswere the first toforget. The face I oncecradled between myhands, now a blur. Andyour voice is slowlydriftingfrommymemory,likeafadingpolaroid.But
the way I felt is stillcrystal clear. Like it wasyesterday.
There are philosopherswho claim the past,present, and future allexistattheonetime.Andthe way I have felt, theway I feel—that
bittersweet ache betweenwanting and having—isevidenceoftheirtheory.
I felt you before I knewyou and I still feel younow. And in that briefmoment between—wrapped in your armsthinking, how lucky I
am,how lucky I am,howluckyIam—
HowluckyIwas.
Thoughts
Dawnturnstoday,
asstarsaredispersed;
whereverIlay,
Ithinkofyoufirst.
Thesunhasarisen,
thesky,asadblue.
Iquietlylisten—
thewindsingsofyou.
Thethoughtswe
eachkeep,thatare
closesttoheart,wethinkas
wesleep—andyou’re
alwaysmylast.
Dyslexia
TherewerelettersIwroteyou that I gave upsending, long before Istopped writing. I don’tremember their contents,but I can recall withabsolute clarity, yourname scrawled across the
pages. Icouldneverquitecontain you to thosemessysheetsofblueink.Icould not stop you fromovertaking everythingelse.
I wrote your name overand over—on scraps ofpaper,inbooksandonthe
back of my wrists. Icarved it like sacredmarkings into trees andthe tops of my thighs.Years went by and thescars have vanished, butthe sting has not left me.Sometimeswhen I read abook, parts will lift fromthe pages in an anagramofyourname.Likeacode
toremindmeit’snotover.Likedyslexiainreverse.
DeadPoets
Her poetry is written onthe ghost of trees,whispered on the lips oflovers.
Asa littlegirl, shewoulddriftinandoutoflibrariesfilledwithdeadpoetsandtheir musky scent. She
held them in her handsand breathed them in—wantingsomuchtobepartoftheirworld.
It wasn’t long beforeEmily began speaking toher, then Sylvia andKatherine; their voicesrang in unison, haunting
and beautiful. They toldher one day her poetrywould be written on theghost of trees andwhispered on the lips oflovers.
But it would come at aprice.
Thereisn’tathingIwould
not gladly give, shethought, to join my idolsonthosedustyshelves.Tobeimmortal.
As if reading her mind,the voices of the deadpoets cried out in alarmandwarned her about thegreatest heartache of all
—how every stroke ofpenthereafterwouldopenthe samewoundoverandoveragain.
What is thecauseofsuchgreat heartache? Sheasked. They heard thekeen anticipation in hervoice and were sorry for
her.
The greatest heartachecomes from lovinganother soul, they said,beyond reason, beyonddoubt, with no hope ofsalvation.
It was on her sixteenthbirthday that she first fell
in love. With a boy whobrought her red roses andwhitelies.Whenhebrokeher heart, she cried fordays.
Thenhopeful,shesatwitha pen in her hand, poisedover the blank whitesheet, but it refused todrawblood.
Manybirthdayscameandwent.
One by one, she lovedthem and just as easily,they were lost to her.Somewhere amidst thecarnations and forget-me-nots, between the lilacsand mistletoe—she
slowlylearnedaboutlove.Little by little, her heartbloomedintoabouquetofhope and ecstasy, oftendernessandbetrayal.
Then she met you, andyou brought herdandelions each day, soshewouldneverwant forwishes. She looked deep
intoyoureyesandsawthevery best of herselfreflectedback.
And she loved you,beyond reason, beyonddoubt, and with no hopeofsalvation.
When she felt your loveslipping away from her,
she knelt at the altar,before all the great poets—andshebegged.Shenolongercaredforpoetryorimmortality, she onlywantedyou.
But all the dead poetscould do was look on,helpless and resigned
while everything she hadeverwishedforcametruein the cruelest possibleway.
She learned too late thatpoets are among thedamned, cursed tocommiserate over theirloss, to reach withoutstretched hands
—hands that will neverknow the weight of whattheyseek.
Time
Youweretheone
Iwantedmost
tostay.
Buttimecouldnot
bekeptat
bay.
Themoreitgoes,
themoreit’sgone—
themoreittakesaway.
BrokenHearts
I know you’ve lostsomeoneandithurts.Youmay have lost themsuddenly, unexpectedly.Or perhaps you beganlosingpiecesofthemuntilone day, there was
nothing left. You mayhaveknownthemallyourlife or you may havebarelyknown themat all.Eitherway,itisirrelevant—you cannot control thedepthofawoundanotherinflictsuponyou.
Which is why I am not
here to tellyou tomorrowwill be a new day. Thatthesunwillgoonshining.Orthereareplentyoffishinthesea.WhatIwilltellyouisthis;it’sokaytobehurting as much as youare.What you are feelingis not only completelyvalid but necessary—
because it makes you somuch more human. Andthough I can’t promise itwill get better any timesoon,Icantellyouthatitwill—eventually. Fornow,allyoucandoistakeyour time. Take all thetimeyouneed.
Wounded
Abruiseistender
butdoesnotlast,
itleavesmeas
Ialwayswas.
ButawoundItake
muchmoretoheart,
forascarwillalways
leaveitsmark.
Andifyou
shouldaskwhichone
youare,myanswer
is—youarea
scar.
Despondency
There was a girl namedDespondency, who loveda boy named Altruistic,andhelovedherinreturn.
She adored books and hecould not read, so theyspent most of their timewanderingthroughworlds
together and in doing so,livedmanylives.
Oneday,theyreadthelastbook there was anddecided they would writetheir own. It was abeautifultalesetagainstaharshdesertwithaprincenamedMirageasthehero.From their wild
imaginings, an intricateplot of adventure andtragedyunfolded.
Altruisticawokeonenightto find Despondencysitting at her desk,furiously scribbling awayin their book. It caughthim by surprise for untilnow,shehadnotwrittena
singlewordwithouthim.
Despondency turned toface him, her eyes castdownward. She told himwhile writing their story,shehadfallendesperatelyin love with PrinceMirage and wanted towander the desert insearchofhim.
Altruisticwasheartbrokenbut knew it was inDespondency’s nature tolongforwhatshecouldn’thave,justlikeitwasinhisnot to stand in her way.Crying,shebeggedhimtoburn the tale of PrinceMirage, but he could notbringhimselftodoit.
Theysaidtheirgood-byesand she asked him if hewould carry their bookwith him always. Hepromised he would andwith one final look, shewas swallowed by theswirling desert sands. Heknewhewould never seeheragain.
Epilogue
The girl was standing inthe graveyard by herfather’stombstonewhenatall stranger approached.Handing her a worn,leather-bound book, hesaid, “Your fatherwantedyou to have this.” She
knew at once it was thebookhehadcarriedinhisbreastpocket,close tohisheart for all his life. Herfather’s inability to readwas also something shehad inherited, and whiletracing her fingers overthecoverofthebook,sheasked, “Can you pleasetellmewhatthetitleis?”
“Grief.” the strangerreplied.
ForYou
HerearethethingsIwantforyou.
Iwantyou tobehappy. Iwant someone else toknow thewarmthof yoursmile,tofeelthewayIdidwhen I was in yourpresence.
I want you to know howhappyyouoncemademeand thoughyoureallydidhurtme,intheend,Iwasbetter for it. Idon’tknowifwhatwe hadwas love,but if it wasn’t, I hopenever to fall in love.Becauseofyou, I know Iamtoofragiletobearit.
I want you to remembermy lips beneath yourfingers and how you toldme things you never toldanother soul. I want youto know that I have keptsacred, everything youhadentrusted inmeand Ialwayswill.
Finally, I want you to
know how sorry I am forpushingyouawaywhenIhad only meant to bringyou closer. And if I everfelt like home to you, itwas because you weresafe withme. I want youtoknowthatmostofall.
AlwayswithMe
YourloveIoncesurrendered,
hasneverleftmymind.
Myheartisjust
astender,asthedayI
calledyoumine.
Ididnottakeyouwithme,
butyouwereneverleftbehind.
Love’sInception
Ididnotknowthatitwas
loveuntilI
knew.
Therewasnever
anothertocompare
withyou.
Butsinceyouleft,
eachboyImeet,
willalwayshaveyou
tocompete.
Karma
Sorrowtellsstories,
Irelaythemtowisdom;
Iplaythemlikerecords
tothose
whowilllisten.
Iknowtobethankful,
Iwasgivenmytime;
tothosewhohavelovedhim—
your
heartacheismine.
Totheonewhowillkeephim,
andtheheartshehaskept
yourlove,whenitleaves
him—hisgreatest
regret.
FairyTalesWhenshewasalittlegirl,she went to the schoollibrary asking for booksaboutprincesses.You’ve read everybook we have aboutprincesses.Inthewholelibrary?
Yes.
Years later, she fell inlove. Shewrote his nameontheinsideofherpencilcase.Hopinghemightaskto borrow a pen so shecouldbefoundout.
In the yard of a housewhereshelived,therewas
a large oak tree carvedwith the initials of eachboy she had ever kissed.Sheputacrossnexttotheletters F.P. and noticedwith a quiet wonder thathesharedthesameinitialsasTheFrogPrince.
Shelovedonlyhim.
Like Rapunzel, she grewher hair longer thananyone she knew and fornearly a whole summer,she slept and slept andslept. She stayed insideuntil her skin turned apowder white against herblood red lips. Each daywas spent living andbreathing and longing for
twisted paths andmurderouswolves.
You’re living in afantasy,hermothersaid.Youneedtowakeup,herboyfriendtoldher.
But all she could thinkabout was the boy who
was now just aninscription inside a pencilcase and two crookedletters carved into an oldoaktree.
And the fairy talehis lipsonce left on the ashensurfaceofherskin.
ALetter
Itwasbeautifullyworded
andpainfullyread;
thethingsthatwerewritten,
werethoseneversaid.
Hisliesweremycomfort,
butthetruthIwasowed—
Isowantedtoknowit,
nowIwishnottoknow.
Unrequited
Thesunabove;astringless
kite,hertendril
fingersreach
toward.
Hereyes,like
flowers,closeat
night,andthe
moonissadtobe
ignored.
ConcentricCircles
Agingisaeuphemismfordying, and the age of atree can only be countedbyitsrings,oncefelled.
SometimesIfeelthereareso many rings inside me
—and if anyone were tolook, they would see Ihave livedanddiedmanytimes over, each timeshedding my leaves barewith the hope of renewal—thedesiretobereborn.
Like concentric circlesthat spill outwards across
thewater—IwishIcouldwear my rings on thesurface and feel lessashamed of them. Orbetter yet, to becompletely stripped andbaptized—my linesvanishing like a newlypressed garment, a stillpond.
Edgar’sGift
Anythingandeverything,
thetwoalmostthesame—
everythingsays,haveitall;
anything,
onetoclaim.
IfIsay,I’dgiveyoueverything,
weknowitcanneverbe,
butIwillgiveyouanything—
Ijusthope
thatthingisme.
Pretext
Ourlove—adeadstar
totheworlditburnsbrightly—
Butitdiedlongago.
LivingaLie
Thoughtsthatshe
cannotunthink;
alifethatshe
cannotunlive.
Skippingstones
towatchthemsink;
sheenvieshow
theyeasily.
Sorrowwrapsher
likeascarf;
waitingfora
smallreprieve—
fallinginandout
oflove.
Soundtracks
Heoncetoldmeabouthislove for lyrics. How thewords spoke to him likepoetry.
I would often wonderabout his playlist and theghosts who lived there.The faces he saw and the
voices he heard. Thesoundtrack to a thousandtragic endings, real orimagined.
ThefirsttimeIsawhim,Inoticed how haunted hiseyes were. And I wasdrawntohim,inthewayamelody draws a crowd tothedancefloor.Pulledby
invisiblestrings.
NowIwonderifIamoneof those ghosts—if I amsomewhere, driftingbetween those notes. Ihope I am. I hopewhenever my song plays,I am there, whispering inhisear.
AWinterSong
Shewasthesong,
inachorus—unheard.
Youwerethesummer
inher
winterofverse.
Yourswasthemelody
shewantedtolearn;
itclungtoherlips,
insilenceityearned.
Itseemsasthoughnow,
youforgoteveryword;
inafieldfullofflowers,
shewasthefirst.
Thereoncewasasong
youremindedherof—
shenolongerlongs,
yetshestillloves.
TwoFishermen
A girl came upon afisherman at the water’sedge and watched as hecasthisnet into thewide,open sea. On closerinspection, she noticedhow all the knots that
usuallyheldanettogetherwereunknotted.
“Why do you throw aknotless net into thewater?”sheasked.
“Iwanttocatchallfishinthe ocean,” he replied.“ButtherearenoneIwishtokeep.”
She walked on a littlefurther and came acrossanother fisherman,holdingasimpleline.Shestudied him quietly as hereeledhiscatch in,beforereturning it to the water.After he repeated thisseveral times, the girlasked him, “Why do youcatch them just to throw
themback?”
“There is only one fish Iwant to catch and so, nootherholdsmyinterest.”
Shipwrecks
Thewildseasfor
whichshelonged,
layfarbeyond
theshore.
Theshipwreck
thatherlipshad
sung,meantshe
neverleftatall.
Itwasn’t’til
thetidehadwon,
thatshe
learneditcouldnot
hurther.
Itwasthefurthest
shehadgone—
andsheneverwent
muchfurther.
AnArtistinLove
Idrewhiminmyworld;
Iwritehiminmylines,
Iwanttobehisgirl,
hewas
nevermeantasmine.
Idrewhiminmyworld;
Heisalwaysonmymind;
Idrawhiseveryline.
Ithurts
whenhe’sunkind.
Idrewhiminmyworld;
Idrawhimallthetime,
butIdon’tknowwhere
todrawtheline.
FalseHope
I don’t know if I wantyou, he says. But I doknowIdon’twantanyoneelsetohaveyou.
It wasn’t good enough, Iknewthat.HonestlyIdid.Inmymind itwascrystalclear. My heart however,
washavingaseriouscaseofselectivehearing.Allitheardwas,Idon’twantanyone else to haveyou. And within that—wasaglimmerofhope,asparkofoptimism.
ACautionaryTale
There is a girlwhoneverreturns her library books.Don’t giveher your heart—it is unlikely you willeverseeitagain.
Afterthought
ThoughtsIthinkofpresently,
willcomeandgowithease—
whilethoughtsofyou,fromlong
before,haveyetto
maketheirleave.
ThememoryofyouandI,
stillfindsmehereandnow;
tomorrow
hasarrivedandgone—
yetyourvoicetome,resounds.
Forifmypresentwereanechoof,
apastI
can’tforget—
Thenthesethoughtsarejust
anafterthought—
andIamalwaysinitsdebt.
Grounded
Thelittlebirdswhodream
offlight;whogaze
intothestarry
night.
Theirtired
wingsfolddown
andup;theytry
theirbestbutitisnot
enough.
TheVeryThing
I often wonder why wewant so much, to giveothers the very thing thatwe were denied. Themother working tirelesslyto provide her child withaneducation;thelittleboy
whowasbulliedinschoolandisnowaNobelPrize-winning advocate forpeace. The author whowrites happy endings forthecharactersinherbook.
Forewarned
If a boy ever says, youremindmeofsomeone—don’t fall in love withhim. You will never beanything more thansecondbest.
MixedMessages
Thequestionsyouhadneverasked
werethingsyouwereafraidtoknow;
everything
thathascometopass,
you’vemadethemalluponyourown.
Therearemanywordsyouneversaid,
thatothersdreamedyou
somedaywould;eachofus
forallourdays—
willliveourlivesmisunderstood.
Masquerade
As a writer, there is aninclination to step insidesomeone else’s shoes, toget under their skin andsee the world throughtheir eyes. In many suchscenarios, I have slippedinto these roles with the
greatestofease—thenoutagain with the samedexterity.
That was until I foundmyself in character,playing the girl who fallsin love with you. It wasthen the line betweenfantasy and reality were
soblurredthatInolongerknewwhoIwas.
Yet, there was clearly apoint when my role waswellandtrulyover.WhenI had gone above andbeyond the requiredwordcount. Where I hadexhausted every newangle or approach there
wastowritingourstory.
I know it’s over, I reallydo.Iknowithasbeenforquitesometime.It’sover,yet my heart still feelsyou.Youareamemorytomenow,butmymindstillthinks of you. What wehadwasfinishedlongago
—yet the words will notstopflowing.
ChangeofHeart
Youwerefaultless
Iwasflawed,
Iwaslesser
yetyou
gavemore.
Nowwithtime,Ifindyouonmy
mind—
PerhapsIlovedyou,
afterall.
Reasons
IwishIknewwhyheleft.What his reasons were.Whyhechangedhismind.
Foralltheseyears,Ihaveturned it over inmyhead—all the possibilities—yetnoneofthemmake
anysense.
And then I think, perhapsit was because he neverlovedme.But thatmakestheleastsenseofall.
AllThereWas
Mygreatestlessonlearnt,
youweremineuntilyouweren’t.
Itwasyouwho
taughtmeso,thegracein
lettinggo.
Thetimewehadwasall—
therewasnotamomentmore.
PenPortrait
Shedoesn’tkeeptime,
soshestoppedwearingwatches.
Herpromisewon’tbind,
sonoone
holdshertothem.
Shelivesinthepast,
soherpresentnevercatches—
Herthoughtsdonotlast,
soherpenmusttattoothem.
MusicalChairs
When the music stoodstill, I was standing at anemptychair.
I could feel you smilingbehind me. (We sensethese things while
dreaming.)
Your hands were on myshoulders, your kissesagainstmyneck.
Then from somewhere,the music of a piano asshe sings to Mozart, noonewilleverknowmethewayyoudo.
TellMe
Tellmeifyouevercared,
ifasinglethought
formewasspared.
Tellmewhenyoulieinbed,
doyouthinkofsomething
Ioncesaid.
Tellmeifyouhurtatall,
whensomeonesays
mynamewithyours.
Itmayhavebeensolongago,
butIwouldgive
theworldtoknow.
BeachBall
Doyouknowthatfeeling?Whenit’slikeyou’velostsomething but can’trememberwhatitwas.It’sasthoughyou’retryingsodesperately to think of awordbutitwon’tcometoyou. You’ve said it a
thousandtimesbeforeandit was always there—rightwhereyouleftit.Butnow you can’t recall it.Youtryandtrytomakeitappearanditalmostdoes,butitneverdoes.
There are times when Ithink it could surface
—when I sense it at thetipofmy tongue.When Ifeel it struggling to burstfrom my chest like abeachballthatcanonlybeheldbeneaththewaterforsolong.
I can feel it stirring eachtime someone hurts me.
WhenIsmileatastrangerandtheydon’tsmileback.When I trust someonewith a secret and theybetrayme.WhensomeoneIadmiretellsmeIamnotgoodenough.
Idon’tknowwhatit isorwhat I have lost. But Iknow it was important, I
know it once made mehappy.
Amends
Iwonderiftherewillbeamorning when you’llwakeupmissingme.Thatsome incident inyour lifewould have finally taughtyou the value of myworth.Andyouwillfeelasurge of longing, when
you rememberhow Iwasgoodtoyou.
When this day comes Ihopeyouwilllookforme.Ihopeyouwill lookwiththekindofconviction I’dalways hoped for, butnever had from you.Because I want to befound.And I hope it will
beyou—whofindsme.
TheMost
Youmaynotknow
thereasonwhy,
foratimeIwasn’tI.
Therewasaman
whocameandwent,
onhimeverybreath
wasspent.
I’msorryIforgot
allelse—itwasthe
mostIeverfelt.
History
In the beginning, I wroteto you and you wroteback. For the first time, Ihad something worthwritingabout.
Then somewhere duringour correspondence, I
deviated—and instead ofwriting to you, I beganwritingforyou.Therewasso much to say, things Icouldn’t tell you and Isenseditwasimportanttoput them downsomewhere. Forinherently, mankind iscompelled to record their
greatest moments inhistory and you weremine.
I don’t write to youanymore. Nor do I writefor you. But I do write—and every word stillachesforyou.
TheDream
Isawadreamlonglostto
me,insearchofanother’s
waking.
Itfoundashoreline
farawayastheday
—asmy
heart,was
breaking.
AndIsighedandwept
forwhatcouldnotbe—
andforallthatcould
havebeen,
Foreveryhopeandevery
prayerlong
drownedbeneaththe
sea.
Ifelltosleepalonethat
night,tothe
soundofadistant
call.
Thefaintestwhisper
ofgood-bye—
andthedreamwasmine,nomore.
WishingStars
Istillsearchforyouin
crowds,inempty
fieldsandsoaring
clouds.
Incitylights
andpassingcars,
onwindingroads
andwishingstars.
Iwonderwhere
youcould
benow,foryears
I’venotsaidyourname
outloud.
Andlongersince
Icalledyoumine—
timehaspassed
foryouandI.
YetIhavelearned
tolivewithout,
Idonot
mind—Istilllove
youanyhow.
ForeverforNow
Stretchingoutfromheretothen,
daysbeforeus,
cameandwent.
Somedaywewillmeetagain,
fornowtheend—
ofdaysonend.
NostalgiaforToday
Do you remember whatyouoncesaidtome?
One day youwill benostalgicfortoday.
At the time, I couldn’t
begintoconceiveafuturewithout you—I believedwithallmyheartweweredestined for each other.And in the back of mymind, I always knew I’dfeel nostalgic for amoment we shared or amemorywe created—butnot once, not even for a
second—did I imagine itwas you I would benostalgicfor.
PokerFace
TherewasatimeIwouldtellyou,
ofallthatachedinside;
thethingsIheldsosacred,
toallthe
worldI’dhide.
Buttheybecameyourweapons,
andslowlyIhavelearnt,
thelessthatissaid,thebetter—
thelesserI’llbehurt.
Ofallyou’veusedagainstme,
theworsthasbeenmywords.
TherearethingsI’llnevertell
you,anditis
sadtothinkitso;
themoreyoucometoknowme—
thelessofmeyou’llknow.
Crosswords
Iwritetobringyoucloser.To imagine your fingerstrailing the curve of myspine. To recall how thespan of your hands wereexactly the width of myhips.Andhowourbodieswouldfall intoeachother
likewordsonacrosswordpuzzle.Iwritefortherawache in my bones whenthe ink seeps into paper—for the bittersweetsorrow that comes frombringingyouback.
ForgetMeNot
Thechoicewasonce
yourchoosing,
beforelosing
becamemy
loss.Iwasthere
inyour
forgetting—untilIwas
forgot.
MelancholySkies
Threesummerspassed
ofsun-drencheddreams,
ofsnowwhiteclouds
andyouandme.
Thewarmthoflove,
allsummerlong,
throughwinter’schill
we’dcarryon.
Eachseason’send
begananew,
untilthelast—
Isharedwithyou.
Theygaveus
years,though
manyago;thespring
criestears—thewinter,
snow.
ThePoet
Whydoyouwrite?heasked.
SoIcantakemyloveforyou and give it to theworld,Ireply.
Becauseyouwon’ttakeitfromme.
Almost
DoyouseehowIlove
himtrue—itcould
havebeenyou.
Asforyouandyour
loveforshe—itcould
havebeenme.
Butwewereamaybe,
andneveramust—
whenitshouldhave
beenus.
He’sForgotten
Timeistowound
likewoundistosuture,
whenshewashispast
andheis
herfuture.
Perfect
Hesaidtome“You’reperfect,
andIwantyoutobemine.”
ButIfeltIwasn’tworthy
andtobeperfect,I’llneed
time.
Iknewitwouldbeworthit,
IcouldbebetterifItried,
thenhegottiredofwaiting—
andI
watchedmychancegoby.
Minefield
If you know a boy witheyesofquietwonderment,who smiles often andspeaks rarely—someonewhopaysthesamerespectto words as he would aminefield—who thinksdeeply and is endearingly
sad—please do not giveyour heart to him. Evenwhen he gently pleadswith you—or clutchesyour hand with graveearnest—no matter howhe tries to convince you,please turn him away.Youdon’tknowhimlikeIknowhim.Youcan’tlove
himlikeIdo.
ASadFarewell
ForallthetimeI’veknownyou,
tothepresent—nowourpast;
Iknownevertoforget
you;though
regretstillpainsmyheart.
HadIknown,Iwouldnothaveleftyou,
alonebeneaththosestars,
onthenightwhenIlastsawyou,
notknowingitwasthelast.
Regrets
Timing is irrelevantwhentwopeoplearemeant for eachother. It’s what I oncebelieved.
Butwemetduringa timewhen I was such a mess,
when I still had so muchtofigureout.HowcouldIhave known how crucialevery word, every actionwas or how losing youwould be something Iwouldalwaysregret?
If only you could havemet me now, howdifferentitwouldbe.How
much I have changed.How I have grown. Ilearned so much from allthe mistakes I made withyou. I just wish I hadmade themwith someoneelse.
OdetoSorrow
Hereyes,aclosedbook,
herheart,alockeddoor;
shewritesmelancholy
likeshe’s
liveditbefore.
Sheoncelovedinaway,
youcouldnotunderstand;
heleftherinpieces
andapeninherhand.
Theodetohersorrow
inthelifeshehasled—
herscratchesonpaper,
thewordstheyhavebled.
RememberingYou
The day you left, I wentthrough all my oldjournals, franticallylooking for the firstmentionofyou.Searchingfor any details I can nolongerrecall—anymorsel
of information that mayhave been lost to mysubconscious. Thememory of you is fading,alittleatatime,andIcanfeel myself forgetting. Idon’twanttoforget.
Love’sParadox
Thereisatidethatrollsaway,
Iwanttomakeitstay.
Aborrowedbooksitsonmy
shelf,Iwantit
formyself.
Therearetwooldhands
thatmovethisclock,
Iwanttomakethemstop.
Thereisaloveyousoldtome,
Ikeepitunderlock—
andyetyouholdthekey.
AGhost
Hisvoiceinthisroom,
likeshadowsonwalls;
Iimaginehimon
theother
sideofthedoor.
Hisvoice,hishands,histouch,
atthestart,theend,
andinthemiddle.
Strangehowit
matteredsomuch,
whennowitmatters
solittle.
LosingYou
I used to think I couldn’tgo a day without yoursmile.Withouttellingyouthings and hearing yourvoiceback.
Then,thatdayarrivedandit was so damn hard butthe next was harder. I
knew with a sinkingfeelingitwasgoingtogetworse,andIwasn’tgoingtobeokayforaverylongtime.
Because losing someoneisn’t an occasion or anevent. It doesn’t justhappen once. It happensoverandoveragain.Ilose
you every time I pick upyour favorite coffeemug;wheneverthatonesongplaysontheradio,orwhen I discover your oldt-shirtatthebottomofmylaundrypile.
I lose you every time Ithink of kissing you,holding you, or wanting
you. I go to bed at nightandloseyou,whenIwishI could tell youaboutmyday.And in themorning,whenIwakeandreachfortheemptyspaceacrossthesheets,Ibegintoloseyoualloveragain.
TheEnd
“Idon’tknowwhattosay,”hesaid.
“It’sokay,”shereplied,“Iknowwhatweare—andIknow
whatwe’renot.”
Encore
ExcerptsfromLove&
Misadventure
AlsobyLangLeav
Availablewhereallgoodbooksaresold
Angels
It happens like this. Oneday you meet someoneandforsome inexplicablereason, you feel moreconnected to this strangerthan anyone else—closerto them than your closestfamily. Perhaps because
this person carries anangel within them—onesent to you for somehigher purpose, to teachyouanimportantlessonortokeepyou safeduring aperilous time. What youmust do is trust in them—eveniftheycomehandin hand with pain or
suffering—the reason fortheir presence willbecomeclearinduetime.
Thoughhere is awordofwarning—you may growto love this person butremember they are notyours to keep. Theirpurpose isn’t to save you
but to show you how tosave yourself. And oncethis is fulfilled, the halolifts and the angel leavestheir body as the personexits your life. They willbe a stranger to you oncemore.
..................................
It’s so dark right now, Ican’tseeanylightaroundme.That’sbecausethelightiscoming from you. Youcan’t see it but everyoneelsecan.
Souls
When two souls fall inlove, there isnothingelsebut the yearning to beclose to the other. Thepresence that is feltthrough a hand held, avoice heard, or a smileseen.
Souls do not havecalendars or clocks, nordo they understand thenotionoftimeordistance.They only know it feelsright to be with oneanother.
This is the reason whyyou miss someone somuch when they are not
there—even if they areonly in the very nextroom. Your soul onlyfeels their absence—itdoesn’t realize theseparationistemporary.
..................................
CanIaskyousomething?
Anything.Why is it every time wesay good night, it feelslikegood-bye?
ADream
As the Earth beganspinning faster and faster,wefloatedupwards,handslocked tightly together,eyes sad and bewildered.We watched as our facesgrewyoungerandrealizedtheEarthwas spinning in
reverse, moving usbackwardsintime.
Then we reached a pointwhere I no longer knewwho you were and I wasgrasping the hands of astranger. But I didn’t letgo.Andneitherdidyou.
..................................
Ihadmyfirstdreamaboutyoulastnight.Really?She smiles.Whatwasitabout?Idon’t rememberexactly,but the whole time I wasdreaming, I knew youweremine.
RoguePlanets
As a kid, I would countbackwards from ten andimagine at one, therewould be an explosion—perhapscausedbyarogueplanet crashing intoEarthor some other major
catastrophe. Whennothinghappened,I’dfeelrelieved and at the sametime,alittledisappointed.
I think of you at ten; thefirsttimeIsawyou.Yoursmileatnineandhowitlitup something insideme Ihad thought long dead.Your lipsat eightpressed
againstmineandatseven,your warm breath in myear and your handseverywhere. You tell meyou lovemeat six andatfivewehaveourfirstrealfight.Atfourwehaveoursecond and three, ourthird. At two you tell meyou can’t go on anylonger and then at one,
youaskmetostay.
And I am relieved, sorelieved—and a littledisappointed.
SeaofStrangers
Inaseaofstrangers,
you’velongedtoknowme.
Yourlifespentsailing
tomyshores.
Thearmsthatyearn
tosomedayholdme,
willachebeneath
theheavyoars.
Pleasetakeyourtime
andtakeitslowly;
asallyoudo
willrunitscourse.
Andnothing
elsecantake
whatonly—wasalways
meantassolely
yours.
Closure
Liketimesuspended,
awoundunmended—
youandI.
Wehadnoending,
nosaidgood-bye.
Forallmylife,
I’llwonderwhy.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my agent,Al Zuckerman, for hisinvaluable guidance andwonderfulsupport.
To Kirsty Melville andher passionate team atAndrews McMeel, forsendingmybooksoutinto
theworld.
ToalltheamazingpeopleIhavehadthepleasureofmeetingonmybooktours(you knowwho you are),thank you forworking sotirelessly behind thescenesandformakingmefeel so welcome on myvisits.
Tomyfamilyandfriends,itgoeswithoutsayingthatIwouldn’tbeherewithoutyour love andencouragement.
ToOllieFaudet,wholikescows and makes melaugh.
And last, but definitely
not least—a very specialthank you to all of mybeautiful readers. Yourunwavering support andkind words inspire meeveryday.
AbouttheAuthor
The work of poet andartist Lang Leav swingsbetween the whimsicaland woeful, expressing acomplexity beneath itschildlikefacade.
Lang is a recipient of theQantas Spirit of YouthAward and a prestigiousChurchillFellowship.
Her artwork is exhibitedinternationally and shewas selected to take partin the landmark PlayboyRedux show curated bythe Andy Warhol
Museum.
She currently lives withher partner andcollaborator,Michael,inalittlehousebythesea.
IndexLostWords
Chapter1-DuetAnd/OrAPhoneCallAPilgrimageClocksDéjàVu
DevotionEntwinedHerWordsHe’sLeavingHisKissIfMyLifeWereaDayKeysLovingYouLullabies
MementosMessageinaBottleMetamorphosisMorethanLoveMyHeartNoOtherOverMyHeadPassingTimePatience
SadThingsSecondChancesSignpostsStayTheSeventhSeaThoughtsofYouTsunamisUsWellWishes
WhenYouChapter2-InterludeDumplingsNostalgiaThatNightTheDinnerGuestTheGardenTheProfessor
VaniaChapter3-FinaleACautionaryTaleAcceptanceAfterthoughtAGhostALetterAllThereWasAlmost
AlwayswithMeAmendsAnArtistinLoveASadFarewellAWinterSongBeachBallBrokenHeartsChangeofHeartConcentricCircles
CrosswordsDeadPoetsDespondencyDyslexiaEdgar’sGiftEpilogueFadingPolaroidFairyTalesFalseHope
ForeverforNowForewarnedForgetMeNotForYouGroundedHe’sForgottenHistoryKarmaLivingaLie
LosingYouLove’sInceptionLove’sParadoxMasqueradeMelancholySkiesMinefieldMixedMessagesMusicalChairsNostalgiaforToday
OdetoSorrowPenPortraitPerfectPokerFacePretextReasonsRegretsRememberingYouShipwrecks
SoundtracksTellMeTheDreamTheEndTheMostThePoetTheVeryThingThoughtsThreeQuestions
TimeTwoFishermenUnrequitedWishingStarsWoundedEncoreADreamAngelsClosure
RoguePlanetsSeaofStrangersSouls
PostedPoemsisauniquepostalservicethatallowsyoutosendyourfavoriteLangLeavpoemtoanyone,anywhereintheworld.Allpoemsare
printedonheavyweightartpaperandencasedinabeautifulstring-tieenvelope.TosendaPostedPoemtosomeonespecialvisit:langleav.com/postedpoems
LULLABIEScopyright©2014byLangLeav.Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybeusedorreproducedinanymannerwhatsoeverwithoutwrittenpermissionexceptinthecaseofreprintsinthecontextofreviews.
AndrewsMcMeelPublishing,LLCanAndrewsMcMeelUniversalcompany1130WalnutStreet,KansasCity,Missouri64106www.andrewsmcmeel.com
ISBN:978-1-4494-6293-2LibraryofCongressControlNumber:2014941351EbookdesignedbyKristenLiszewskiTheFellTypesaredigitallyreproducedby
IginoMarini.www.iginomarini.comATTENTION:SCHOOLSANDBUSINESSESAndrewsMcMeelbooksareavailableatquantitydiscountswithbulkpurchaseforeducational,business,orsales
promotionaluse.Forinformation,pleasee-mailtheAndrewsMcMeelPublishingSpecialSalesDepartment:[email protected].
CheckouttheseothergreattitlesfromAndrews
McMeelPublishing!
TableofContents
Lullabies
TableofContents
Lullabies