覺、醒

回到了遇見你的春天。
在夢裏也能嗅得出那熟悉的味道，
雖然是古龍水混合了菸，
卻也是在你身上我最愛的香氣。

你把我擁入懷裏，雙臂牢牢抓住。
你說這是你能給我的温柔，
我卻感受到身體每個角落快要粉碎。

然後我推開了你，

或許這是最適合我們的距離。

能夠在夢裏重遇是緣份，
就像偶然把被埋藏多年的遺憾挖掘出來，
再次品嚐心碎，
提醒自己真正的愛情是疼痛的。

Kennedy in August

Kennedy in August, under the
sun that is falling
behind a vast green:

I watch, as every second goes by,
the clouds swim
in an ocean of their very own.
A bird, from a field of emeralds,
flaps into a stroke of shy amber
hidden between two mountains,
like a tiny spark of wild fire.
The flame burns through the white veil,
and tints its surroundings
with different shades of gold.

I was taught to write
with a purpose, a moral,
or at least a message - but today,
there is no message that I want
to convey, while I am sitting in awe,
on the Friday concrete I am seemingly melting into,
staring at such a beautiful reality
I have never noticed before -
the same view from my balcony,
the same heat in Summer,
the same mountains and sky.

Only, I am now a house of gratitude
and a million moments of joy.

Roses

Remember to bring these
roses when you come visit
the stone where my angels
and demons finally meet.

Lay the flowers upon
my name and the dark years
that are finally over,
as there will come a beautiful dawn.

The ache in my chest
that I prayed to end every night
has finally stopped hurting
for this peaceful rest.

When the man dressed in black
says, "she was sick, she fought,
but life isn't meant for everyone,"
remember that I'm not dead.

When the woman in a black gown
sobs and shivers, she is my mother,
please hold her tight for me and
do not make a sound.

Look at these roses, vivid and red,
bring them to me when I am asleep,
one for us, one for the ending pain,
one for my glorious days ahead.

Northern Sky

If we ran away, we would run to the far North of the world.

You would be an iceberg ready to collapse in an avalanche; you would be the lonely little feet dangling from the ski lift; you would be a wooden house stood hunched back in the cold.

I would be the fireworks that sound like every beat of your heart chanting to your own memories; I would be the tiny spark of fire strangers forget to put out when they visit; I would be the moon high up in the sky arching my back to look at you standing alone in the snow arching yours.

This is not a love poem. This is a poem about love.

Little Sunflower

The firelight flickered, soft and low,

its embers kissed my hair below.

Eight dark petals, clinging tight,

wilting slowly in the night.

The seeds we pressed with quiet prayer,

the life we dreamed would blossom there,

held tight within my trembling fist—

a wish that time would not permit.

If petals fell with every moon,

eight more months would come too soon.

A heartbeat soft, a spark, a glow,

a warmth we never got to know.

I carried fire to light the way,

but flames can warm or drift astray.

By tender hands or fate untamed,

we set the flower into flames.

Neil Hilborn - "The Future"

Heartstrings

I woke up to my sister's calling this morning,
breathing out her amusement into my ear,
as she excitedly led me into her room
and showed me this bumblebee that was
caught in a cobweb.

I watched as it struggled,
kicking and flapping, fighting
its hardest to untangle itself from the web -
only weaker each passing moment - as if
hope was draining its life away.

The little bee stopped moving, then, exhausted.
My heart pounded recklessly, hoping
it could break free
as the spider approached its prey.

It reminded me of the time when I went fishing with Dad.
The fish was caught by
the hooks on our fish net. It wagged its tail to break free; only
to swim back to the ocean with
broken scales
and fins.

And then I thought of you.
The way your velvet touch was caught in the tangles of my long hair,
the way your tongue was tied in knots with mine,
the way your words were always stuck with the loops inside my head;
and I thought of the way you fought hard
to escape when you were trapped by my heartstrings.

The bumblebee flapped once again with a sharp buzz,
fell to the ground with
torn wings, parts of them still being stuck to the spiderweb.
The bee was left there to rot
and the cobweb was left with

a big hole.