Tuesday, May 9, 2017

Kiss

It's strange to me
that once
all lovers were strangers.
Their kiss
was once a new sensation;
Their touch a map unknown
and unfamiliar.
But in a quiet moment
of watching them kiss, tangled
up in each other's bodies
I see a sensation known, familiar, comfortable.
And I wonder what it takes
to get there.
They seem so certain
of their touch; so conscious and fulfilled.
Their hands know
where to go and how to rest gently
as fire.
When will I be there? I wonder
if I ever will.
I wonder if I'll be a map well worn
to somebody.
A book well read.
A favorite drink, song, poem.
What will I be
to somebody?
I hope that I am known.
That is my deepest wish.
I hope I am touched
and with one hand against mine,
understood.
-k.p.

May 9th, 2017
11:39pm
Tuesday

Friday, April 7, 2017

On the Poetry of the Universe

“Night was come, and her planets were risen: a safe, still night: too serene for the companionship of fear. We know that God is everywhere; but certainly we feel His presence most when His works are on the grandest scale spread before us; and it is in the unclouded night-sky, where His worlds wheel their silent course, that we read clearest His infinitude, His omnipotence, His omnipresence.” -Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre 

Thursday, April 6, 2017

This old heart of mine

This old heart of mine,
Still hurts.
Every niche, nook, drawer, untucked clothes and shadow of it
Aches.
A dull, ferocious aching, too.
The kind that makes you stay up stumbling through the night savagely, hands outstretched and weary,
Trying to find an answer through your blindness.
I am not alone.
I have one friend and my books.
But the trouble with one friend and books is she isn't always there and the books eventually end.
And when they end it hurts.
It hurts so badly that you stumble through the night
Aching to be whole again.
Aching to read it for the first time once more--
Where things were exciting and new and beguiling.
But now the feelings settle, sequester in your mind and puddle in your heart nostalgically and all you can do
Is ache and reminisce and keep looking.
Keep searching for the next book to catch you and your friend to come home
And things to work out.
Always, to work out.
-k.p.

April 6th, 2017
Thursday
2:00pm - still in bed aching in a full and vicious hangover of a book (the best book the whole world) and waiting for heaven knows what.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Reader, I Married Him

“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame.”
Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
(In honor of finishing one of the greatest novels ever written, finished in the in between dream-state of the lateness of night and the earliness of morning.
What sweltering pains and deep passions fill my heart, until, if those words read once again, these feelings will surely  overflow in a river of conscious experience and beauty.
Thanks be to God for allowing such words to penetrate my heart and for the the brave, clever, indescribable woman who wrote them--Charlotte, thank you. I sense a true, unequivocal kindred spirit in you. I owe you much. -k.p. )
5:36am

Sunday, April 2, 2017

Stay Alive

"The gears won't turn and the leaves won't grow."
I didn't want us to be those people that love each other for one measly moment and then after time slips through us, through our veins and our bodies, we forget the sound of each other's names rolling off our lips sweetly. We forget how much our love was once so strong and beautiful and happy.
I didn't want to forget how kind and extraordinary you once were and I didn't want to stop my wanting and my pacing and my loving. I didn't want to be disgusted or repelled by every last thing attached to you and your soul that was once so bright and beautiful.
But I've been waiting all my life to feel a heart keeping time just as mine does. I've been waiting all my life to feel alive by someone else, that feeling that makes you stay alive and know the dawn is coming and I can open my eyes, and know I'm going to be okay. I've been waiting all my life to be loved too.
I didn't want us to be strangers, but it's what we are. We are strangers to a love that has been dead for years, even though we've only known each other for shorter time than that.
You seemed like such an eminent, innocent, marvelously distressed idea to me, years ago. But now I see you are nothing of the kind. You are empty of love for me along with many things and I am sorry that it ended the way it has.
But as it's always said when things like this happen--
c'est la vie. 
That's life, my friend.
And it keeps going.
You do whatever just to stay alive, sometimes.
And sometimes, you stay alive because you want to.
Never forget that both ways are important, but one, one day, will set you free. If you let it.
"[There] is a truth and it's on our side. Dawn is coming open your eyes. Look into the sun as the new days rise."
Dawn is coming, they say, open your eyes.

-k.p.

March 23, 2017

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Drink Water From Cups (part II)

The lights fell around us until we were encased in a gentle darkness.
I could feel the stream of fibrous light from the film projector moving across the screen like wandering water intertwined with sparkling sunlight. It moved like a dance across the smooth fabric. It dazzled my senses completely.
The dark room smelled faintly of buttered popcorn and cold water on my tongue. Hushed voices. Soft whisperings around filled my ears with tension. I could sense a gravity of Kenz, all moving, silent and irreproachable; a sleeping beast, I thought it. Whatever it was, it seemed meekly confused, yet undeniably present.
The French film flitted across our faces beautifully, but a darkness, heavy and delicate settled in my heart in anxious hunger to devour it. Or, at least, be free of it.
Kenzie was in pain. I could feel that much. I knew her well enough to care, but I guess not well enough to take her hand and squeeze it gently, telling her everything would be okay, as I knew it would be, with perhaps, some time. But I didn't do that.
I should've.
I don't know what's wrong with me sometimes.
The words "le vent nous portera" are sewn along the bottom of the screen and I wonder what they mean, as with many things.
The music plays softly, lullabies of foreign words and exquisite imagery. I can't help but give into myself, being pulled by the tender fingers of its melody, lost in a wasteland of beautiful eminence.
The film ends and all the while through it, I remember sipping cold water slowly from my cup and sensing Kenzie doing just the same, but very differently. Very differently indeed.
I guess what I'm really trying to say with all of this is, I don't want Sunday Morning to come and the thought that I sipped my water tentatively rather than squeezed her hand or shed a tear or something for her--creep into my heart and fester there all the Sundays after.
When a human being feels things deeply and lingers there, what are you to do?
I'll tell you.
Sip your water from cups, but grab the blasted hand and know that life is infinitely more than the cool water you drink that gives you life. This is life, here in a hand, a heart, a friend. Know this and you shall live.
Of this I know.

-k.p.
7:29pm 3/22/17

Drink Water From Cups

Sitting in a peaceful Vietnamese vegan restaurant, named All Chay,
there is a massive plant spilling from a pretty printed pot, that hoists a chubby Buddha that makes me think about life.
It makes me feel calm having that plant in the center of the room, at the center of all things.
I see Kenz trying to figure out the precise wording to a complicated text.
I hear strangers murmur amongst themselves in a lively fashion.
And here I am.
Listening to the delicate clinking of silverware and smelling incense and glorious fresh food
and I'm wondering about life.
I'm wondering why I am here and not so many other places.
Yet, through the string of many thoughts, I feel content here, thankful and free.
But now something has changed.
Kenz has come back upset and tells me she needs to make a call.
I don't know what to tell her, but she's gone.
I stare at the room, at the lights and the smell that is visually around me.
She comes back and it's wrong. The phone is wrong, her face, the way my heart suddenly swells in anger.
I don't understand people.
The strangers no longer murmur, they shout. They scream and squeal and drool vituperative words from their pointed lips.
I'm angry.
I slosh our pho soups in a paper bowl and hastily we dash through the doors, myself struggling to keep up. She walks so fast and I can tell her hands are shaking.
Clumsily I fall behind and spill the murky broth on the car floor and desperately dash back into the restaurant to fix it.
I come back and she's talking and while she's talking I'm scrubbing and scrubbing pitifully trying to fix it, but with every lilt, every hesitation in her voice I stop. I scrub. I pretend not to be searching for the little voice inside the phone, but the scrubbing keeps stopping and I keep going.
I listen.
I scrub once I know I've listened too long and my heart swells again, a tumultuous rage of waves.
The soup still sits on the floor even after I've scrubbed it; there's no way to fix this.
There's no way I can.
She jingles her keys in the space of silence and I sit here typing away when I should and shouldn't be listening.
I should care.
I do care.
I care too much and I want to remember this moment because somehow, somewhere within me, I am told this is right and I will learn from this night.
Everything, every last drop and pile and niche of my life right now feels so strange and so exquisitely designed, pulling me somewhere else.
For some reason, I sense the poet Rumi, near me now, beckoning me with the wisdom of all the universe, yet here I am occupying my body and soul in a little red car, trying to be better.
Trying and as always failing.
As I am,
as all things are--
an effort.
-k.p.
8:26pm Tuesday
March 21, 2017

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Frown

Do you ever look at yourself and say,
I am foolish and
clumsy and silly.
These are the strange faults of myself
and aren't they lovely?
No, you don't.
You don't see them, the beautiful faults of yourself, and what a tragic waste you are when you can't see past the end of your long, long nose.
Who cares if it's good looking?
Who cares if it curls just right at the bottom and smooths itself into a handom circle?
I don't.
I care that you see yourself for what you really are, what I also really am--
a beautiful, faulted human, full of life and mistake that is dusted by the everyday ordinary and showered by the everyday extraordinary and wonder--
because I choose to be. 
Look at how you see yourself
and ask yourself
why you don't see yourself
for what you are
rather than by what you see.
Me?
I read too much and not enough.
I drown out all too much as well. My headphones are attached to my body.
I find bare feet unattractive most of the time.
I see beauty in a faulted face and crave the laugh so unappealing and atrocious you know it must be real.
Sometimes I'm a bad listener, terrible even.
I never get sufficent amount of sleep.
I'm a music snob, along with fashion.
I don't eat olives or cashews. In fact, I despise them. 
I don't favor the cold chill of spring down my back or the dying breath of a summer's night fire.
I sleep with my fan on--all through the night.
I often find myself wishing I could speak every language or at least one another one.
I miss my sister. So much.
I'm anxious by the sea.
You know what else?
I see you.
I see you even though you don't want me to and
you know what I really see?
I see a lost boy
pretending he is man. 
A small child,
wishing he was something more than he is and professing such delirious nonsense, I know it must be true.
I see a scared child in your eyes
and that is how I see the goodness in you
that you hide so well.
But not from me.
Never from me.

-k.p.

Monday, February 27, 2017

I saw the books

I saw all these books
                and I thought
so this is what heaven looks like
and I am right on the edge of it.

-k.p.

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Stuff we do

SINKING FRIENDSHIPS

We're swimming in the blue
Nigh misfortune: Unlively like a glue
My eyes are soaked all way through

Our sinking friendships
We drown them all

I'm singing a sad tune
Is this all I do? (Ooh Ooh Ooh)
Is this all I do? (Ooh Ooh Ooh)

We should all wear two lifesaving layers
We should all wear two...

No one knows you, till it's over
You know no one true, till it's over

Is this all I do?
Is this all I do?

My lips are pale blue
My shivering half-moon
My last night's lost tune
It's the end of the end of the end

Our sinking friendships
We drown them all

I'm singing a sad tune
Is this all I do? (Ooh Ooh Ooh)
Is this all I do? (Ooh Ooh Ooh)

We should all wear two lifesaving layers
We should all wear two...

No one knows you, till it's over
You know no one true, till it's over

No one knows you, till it's over
You know no one true, till it's over

Is this all I do?
Is this all I do?

Jónsi

Life in the Doorway

It seems we live life two ways--
in the doorway
where we were placed long ago. 
We stay put.
We could lean toward the light.
We could collapse back into the dark from whence
we came.
I'd fancy myself somewhere in between but
you can't fight demons
from the sidelines and you can't feel
the warmth of the sun
from the moon.
Stay put and you might as well not be living at all.
So what do you do?
Rumi might know.
Mary urges him to take his time as he answers.
But God is the only one who showed them
and to discover that the roses are children talking
not to you or anyone really
just amongst themselves
just might be the answer.
The roses know themselves.
Do we? Do I?
Does anyone?

-k.p.

"4am thoughts" (not about you).

Thursday, February 23, 2017

No one knows me like the piano

No one knows me like the piano does.
What's buried in my chest
is a forest unexplored,
untamed and spotted with strange light.
There are creatures there
from many places and
some of them look like demons of this world.
No one knows me like the rain does.
I've walked
purposefully with it
thousands of time
and I daresay it knows me better than anyone.
It has felt my scars and wondered where they came from,
not just that they are there.
It talks with me for hours.
No one knows me the way my pillow does
as it has carried
all my tears
and never once begged me to stop, pleading with me to control myself with those selfish eyes of external affairs
that are far, far from me.
If I holler let me know.
When the tears follow hold me down.
If I falter let me go.
I don't want to swim forever,
but it seems I have no choice.
None at all.
I've curled into myself more than
I care to admit
and not all of those curls were selfish.
I'm just alone sometimes. And
sometimes, I'm always alone.
No one knows me like the piano does
in my mother's home.
The bitter thoughts I've pressed into it like a needle with hot tears and trembling, aching rage.
Years of doubt pouring over
its innocent white teeth
and I wonder
from time to time if
there's blood on those white teeth that
tastes and smells
like my own.
The piano, the pillows, the walls, the headphones
they've all seen the worst and the best of me.
They know me best.
So why do I feel so unknown?
Surely God knows me.
Perhaps I'm merely beneath the covers
trying to grow like roots,
but find no soil.
Perhaps the piano knows
my pain is good
and tells me to whisper.
Listen.
Rather than play. 

Feb. 23, 2017
Thurs.
9:58pm

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Days like lost dogs

Warm and wet
I run like a tired old mare trying to make sense of a cold dark moon
resting far above me.
Underneath the lights in your room,
I was loved.
On quiet days I was loved by you.
I was your shadow.
I'd follow where you'd go and never minded the tug along.
Darkness and deep green musk are my woodland home now and
the stars that know my name--my atlas.
I don't want to live my life alone, but I've been waiting for you all my life and
all my life I've never been free.
Set me free.
Warm water fills my lungs
rushing down my mane in a trickle of disgusting emotions.
What do I do? I let myself go.
You are gone with the mist and shadow and I--
I am still here.
I bark at the moon, I howl for you in pointless agony.
It's your name they all hear from
far, far away
and wonder what on earth I'm trying to say.
Rage against the dying of the light,
they say,
but all I do is desperately wait for the etching of the sun on the
royal blue horizon like an old friend.
Silently it comes.
Silently I wait for it to see me and warm the coldness of my cheeks, my bones and skin
out of numbness
into reality.
For it to love me.
There will always be better days for dogs.
But not today.
Today I run until the grass is green
and a grown man cries out affectionately
just for me.
The art of racing in the rain is why I run.
I run as
my name is howled at the moon.
I am not lost you fool
I am found. 
I can feel His arms around me and my own and that is enough.
For now, that is enough.
Dog days are here again
for people who know why.
I, too, was once too young to understand.
But does anyone else smell the taste of rain as it's coming
and listen with their heart as the
music softly beats against it?
That's all I need to know.
Like lost days of the dog.

-k.p.

2/21/17
Tuesday
7:23pm

Sunday, February 19, 2017

Hoppipolla (Jumping in Puddles) pt.i

It has rained a lot this week and I can't help but feel such comfort and abiding bliss from it. I listened to the "We Bought a Zoo" soundtrack in my room while I left my window open and heard it fall and it's moments like that where life can't seem to help but grab you around the waist and begin to dance with you. My daisies all watched me happily as I did dance with life and with myself and petrichor (peh--treh--core, the smell of rain) filled the room and with it, so much pleasure. Ahhh, sometimes I don't even know why this life is ever painful, but then again, that too is a gift. Isn't it? "We Bought a Zoo" always makes me think of you probably because it's so beautiful and cheerful and positive. Your heart is hidden all through beautiful and exciting things for me and I honestly see you so much in so many little, but big, things everyday. The song, "Hoppipolla" will always, always make me think of you sweetie Rachie. I love it so much because of that.
I love you Rachel. So much. A szivem. I hope this week is filled with pleasure and culture and warmth. Look for the light resting in everyone's heart. It's always there. I promise. To the moonya and back.

-from a letter to Ray, February 19, 2017 Sunday

Friday, February 17, 2017

I know

I know I'm not alone.
I know. 
But I feel so.
I feel so very,
very
alone.

Feb. 17. 2017
Friday Night
Nothing to do.

Thursday, February 16, 2017

Just to clarify

I don't know who I'm going to marry and fall in love with in this world.
But,
no matter what one thing is certain--
I do plan to love and be loved fully, like a night full of stars.
That one thing is certain.

The Grey Havens

I miss you so much I almost can't breathe. I hear your voice and I see your face and I can't help but feel it isn't enough. I need you, here. I need you Ray. I need my Sam-Wise Gamgee. You feel so far away and the music plays so softly it's like a sad angel beckoning all these thoughts of you to me. Tears stain my face. My heart aches. I miss you. Where are you? Where has my light in the darkness gone to? Please, don't go where I can't follow. I need you here beside me. I need you always, my Sam. My dear, dear Sam.
Please, come back.
I'm lost.
I need you with me.
Please.
Come back Sam.
Please.
Please.

-kierst

02-15-17
1:27am
Wednesday
"The Lord of the Rings" 💙

Thursday, February 9, 2017

Brooklyn

Your car is everywhere, you seem to be in a lot of places.
Fireworks couldn't make me not see them, see you, and it's supposed to be easy to ignore such a stupid thing like an old black car full of too much adventure.
But it's not.
It's infuriating.
I despise this. You slip from my fingers like tears, but stick to me like glue--what a stupid conundrum you are.
I'm past sadness now; I'm through weeping over you because you are a terrible friend and I've finally seen it for what it really is.
You don't care about me. You hardly ever did. But you do care about yourself and what a company I am happy to be rid of now.
So let me be rid of all the black cars and the possibilities of seeing you that linger in the air.
Leave me be.
I'm through being somebody's nobody.
I'm nobody's nobody. I am my own. I was never yours, but I could've been, what a loss for you.
Float me down the Hudson with a radio playing all the songs that make me think of you.
Blow out the candles, drown the flowers, let the rain fall while I walk alone through it.
I'm done.
I'm very, very done.
Goodbye New York.
You've taken all my love for him and I'm okay with that.
Now I'm free. Now I'm free.
-k.p.

Feb. 9th, 2017
7:49pm

Monday, February 6, 2017

"F-O-X"

The best love story is full of wit and wisdom, laughter and embarrassment.
It has mischief and misunderstanding and confusion. It is rich in teasemeant and lots of 'almosts'.
But the truly best love story begins with a letter and ends with a kiss.
-k.p.
Feb. 6, 2017
Monday
6:41pm
"You've Got Mail"

Friday, February 3, 2017

J'ouvert

she writes French poetry on her bandaids
and drinks tea for breakfast.
Radiohead dances in her blueberry headphones
while the world tries to bring her back into their quiet, quiet world.
nothing pleases her unless it might be French or art and even then she makes it up in her wild garden of a mind.
nothing puts her down
until the day he left
her as empty as the spaces between
her ribs where flowers used to grow.
they used to sing.
but she's still happy alone.
music, tea, art--
how can one be alone with any of them?
who needs them when they won't hurt her? this she knows.
the real pain is out there in the quiet, quiet world.
this she also knows.
here she is safe, but alive. safe, but undone. safe, but on some edge.
safe, but she is loving more than many people could love
in one measly second of trying.
she pretends to speak French and sing well;
she sees angels and she chases demons away with clumsy catastrophe.
she is lonely but in love. she is loved.
in the hours of not dreaming, she sleeps and sees a world as good as hers,
but with a lover and somehow it is better there.
she wonders how that is.
she does not know.
yet she smiles.
there is beauty hidden in the unknown
and it always makes her smile.

-k.p.
February 3rd, 2017
Friday 1:29pm
"No Surprises" Radiohead

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Vienna

Maybe I was just alone and stupid but I really loved you kid. But maybe that was just my mistake. Maybe that's all it was.

Monday, January 30, 2017

Juice

You drank my heart up
like juice and
hardly left any
for myself.

-no title-

"Sometimes it's the quiet parting of ways that is the most painful. It's the slow, drifting apart that can sever the heart the deepest."

Rumi spoke, again

Your grief for what you've lost lifts a mirror
up to where you're bravely working.

Expecting the worst, you look, and instead,
here's the joyful face you've been wanting to see.

Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes.
If it were always a fist or always stretched open,
you would be paralyzed.

Your deepest presence is in every small contracting
                  and expanding,
the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated
as birdwings.

-rumi

Sunday, January 29, 2017

"à ceux qui sont malades par mer calme"

my mind
is like a small sailor
sickened
by the calm sea.

i stand here with the openness of
vast,
blue water spraying
across my chest, upon
my face;
my toes curl by the edge of it
and i am sickened
by a vapor of
nothing.

no movement.
no tumultuous rocking of
sand
shells
and sea, together.

nothing.
no chaos
or calm to disturb me.
mere air and the poison
of my own
mind
waltzing
disturbingly
through it.

if i must see another
man and woman
kissing
i will throw myself
overboard, and with it
my desire
to be in love
and feel that very same kissing
sensation.

and i will go
over and over
and over again until
it is gone.

i am alone.
my lips
have never once
tasted a kiss
and i feel very sorry for myself,
but not nearly
as sorry as the ocean does.
with what right do i have to burden it?
what what misconstrued privilege do i
elect those i deem
worthy
to throw my body in its body
to make myself
whole?

i may be sad, but i am not cruel.
i am not cruel.

i might be broken
but the music still plays even if
it is not
my own for a while.

who are you
to rob me of the only thing i have ever, ever
wanted?
who are you
to walk on this calm water and make me feel a storm?

who am i
to let you?

yours,
k.p. 

Simple

You know you've found love
real love
when all the songs make sense.
Even the sad ones.

-k.p.
January 29, 2017
Sunday
7:11pm

Monday, January 23, 2017

Pompeii

You were a god in my eyes. You were a god. I always saw you in the best light, the kind that falls gently on your shoulder and rests there like a lonely hand looking to be loved.
You were somehow perfect. Those blue eyes watching everything, yet only now do I realize, seeing very little. Your cold hands. Your buried secrets. Your wild heart some how asking, without permission, to be loved by me.
I wanted you so much. I ached for some kind of infinity with you, but that was never meant to be in your mind. So, slowly it vanished from mine.
I was too young to understand. I was too young. My heart was just beginning when I met you and all I see is that brave, foolish heart marching at you in the dark unknown begging to be loved. Bravery really is a kinder version of stupidity, isn't it?
Don't cry. It's okay. My heart is no longer afraid. It was once so very pale and white and silent, after too long of loving you; quivering by an endless cold that did not really exist. It was once a tired animal, small and fragile, stroked by the chilling darkness of loneliness that fed upon disillusions and soft fantasies of us. Us. 
Though it's quieter now, and it doesn't seem to dance the same reckless way it did before. Now it listens. It learns. It knows its worth lies somewhere far, far away from those who simply hurt it.
I see your pale ghosts like immortalized statues and they used to make me weep at how beautiful and tragic they were. I thought I could fix these broken demons, trace my gentle hands across their shattered faces and patch them up again. But I can't. I never could. They were never broken. I was. I didn't see it, but the glass between us was broken and I thought it was merely you and your demons. But it's not. It never was.
I'm not blaming you. I'm not. Actually, I'm not really doing anything except writing silly words and thinking about you when I'm not certain I should.
I guess the fire is coming now and instead of running to a burning ocean to die faster, I just wait for the flames to come, watching, until I too become a frozen statue next to you, my charcoal hand almost reaching yours. Almost.
What a sad tragedy we are. And to think every love can be a great one if you only care about the other one while still respecting yourself. That's it. That's what we could've been rather than this tragic ending of fire and flame.
We are not heroes or martyrs. We are stupid lovers that never even loved each other. What a cosmic waste we are. Utterly pathetic.

-k.p.
January 23, 2017
Monday

Saturday, January 21, 2017

Bruises

"But sometimes," she spoke with a sudden passion that was reverent and gentle, "the books and the music and the poetry. They don't start talking to you until life nicks you up a bit. The best art is the art that pulls at you and with it's bare hands invites you in just as you are and talks about your demons. Life has a funny way of hurting you and then healing you. They don't always come in any order or in a specific way. They just come and often it's because we are hurt we understand the chorus, the verse, the stroke, and the artist. That is why art is important, but pain--yes pain--is essential."

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Please, please, please, let me get what I want

They say life exists here and now but that's just a lie.
Life exists with you. Life exists briefly when I think about you, always. When the music plays and I actually feel something.
When I look at you and feel the way my heart plummets and flip flops around like a fish out of water--just for you.
You.
I'm exhausted of this madness.
For once in my life let me get what I want.
For once give me a kiss. Let me be alive. Let me feel this life run a course through my body like a strand of electricity streaming through my bones, my hair, my heart, softly closing my eyes as it does it.
I want to feel something. All I do is ache.
I ache for a breath of something wild and dangerous and exhilarating all at once.
I ache with real, potent aching to feel someone's lips on mine, making undone all that needs to be undone. One tug of lips that pulls the fraying strings in me and chases my demons away. A kiss. A stirring inside me. A feeling of total, blissful wanting. Maybe it's more than wanting I desire. It's desire itself. It's knowing I can be desired. I can.
Can I?
"I've never known..." I whisper as he's kissing me. He doesn't understand. He keeps kissing me. "I've never known," I say once more before his kiss stops me one last time, "I've never known I could have it. What I've always wanted. You. Me. A kiss. To be loved. It's all I've ever wanted." Without a word he keeps kissing me and then he leaves me, just like that.
I am alone again.
But.
C'est la vie.
That's life.

-k.p.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

My heart

My heart has been beating
               all my life.
Then came you,
and I'm no longer sure
if it beats the same
               or beats at all.
It's confused.
But I'm having fun watching
the way it
figures it out.

-k.p.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

My, Mary Oliver

Moments

There are moments that cry out to be fulfilled.
Like, telling someone you love them.
Or giving your money away, all of it.

Your heart is beating, isn't it?
You're not in chains, are you?

There is nothing more pathetic than caution
when headlong might save a life,
even, possibly, your own.

-m.o.
Felicity, 2016

My problem

You know what my problem is? I wrote this blog as if I was talking to somebody, when really no one is there. Even if you read this you are not here. You are there. You are living whatever your life is where ever you are living it and maybe, if I'm  lucky, my words have meant some small something in it.
But no.
My problem is I write these words in hopes that someday, I can be writing to no one but myself and I can be happy, even though I already am. You follow?
My problem is I hear the end of a song and think it is the beginning of one.
My problem is my phone is heavy while I write these words and my heart is also. And I am alone. I am always alone.
-k.p.

Wednesday, January 4, 2017

Rumi spoke

When I remember your love,
I weep, and when I hear people
talking of you,
                         something in my chest,
where nothing much happens now,
moves as in sleep.

-Rumi
Send The Chaperones Away