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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

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LULLABIEScopyright©2014byLangLeav.Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybeusedorreproducedinanymannerwhatsoeverwithoutwrittenpermissionexceptinthecaseofreprintsinthecontextofreviews.

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ISBN:978-1-4494-6293-2LibraryofCongressControlNumber:2014941351EbookdesignedbyKristenLiszewskiTheFellTypesaredigitallyreproducedby

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