Random words I mushed together

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Growth...

We never stop growing, this I truly believe.

That doesn't mean we're always flowering.

Doesn't mean the growth is visible, but it's there.

The soil below us as deep as our roots could ever stretch.

So much room to bloom. We're so very lucky in that sense.

Sometimes though, it feels like I've been over-watered and I'm just stagnating.

My roots having hit the bottom of the pot I was placed in, drowning in the well meaning liquid.

That is…

Until someone with a greenthumb and a healthy sense of adventure comes along.

Uprooting me, shaking the dense soil from my extended limbs and placing me in the Earth.

Ready to seek out new limits.

 Before I met you, I wanted to be a bird.
I could fly away when things became too much to take.
No rules, no fixed abode, just freedom.
Now I want to be an otter.
Because, no.
I'm still far from wanting to be me.
But otters have those tiny hands, you know?
You can't hold wings, you get me?

Today I broke your spine.
I folded you so far that I felt the distinct snap of plastic and paper and I used the leverage to stare at your insides.

In honesty, it’s more intimate than that.
My vision blurring as the bold type melds together and I catch your scent.
It’s that familiar, warm smell that makes me think of hours spent tracing the lines of your contents.
You didn’t even shy away, why would you, after all this time?
You don't worry about covering up, you left that on my bookshelf years ago, it's collecting dust there. 

You? 

You're more than happy to be on the move, ready for whatever comes your way. 

It's early.

I wake.

The fragment of a dream, pulling at my consciousness.

Never mind that, I have to pee.

I do.

I come back to bed and there you are.

Sprawled comfortably on your side of the bed.

The early morning light filtering in through the curtain, gently caressing the soft curves of your back and sides.
Eyelids softly flutter in the shadows that I make moving across the room.

Bathed in a sepia tone, you smile in your sleep - knowing I'll be back in bed soon.

I remember thinking I wish I could take a picture, but it would ruin the moment (and be a bit creepy…)

In lieu of that I wish I could draw you like this, I wish you could see how gorgeous you look like this.

A Greek goddess asleep in a meadow, A lion napping in the savannah, a mouse asleep in a flower.

You look soft. If I didn't know, I'd wonder if you were soft. You are.

You've always been so hard to keep in my sights.

Like I smashed an hourglass open on the beach and made a sandcastle out of the remains.

Each grain an atom of your essence. The gold you're made of, blending into the beauty of nature.

The tide comes in and drags you back to your origin from time to time.

And yet every day, you return, a little more detailed than the day before.

Some days I get to help re-make you. That's okay though, I like to help. Where I can.

I was up until 2am with Existential Dread.

Usually I only let him have his fun during the day, I'll take him to the park with me or to work.

He runs around, pointing out the flaws in modern life and I brush him off with a fond smile and a sense of wisdom I don't feel that I've earned.

These days I'm only going as far as the store or the garden, times being what they are.

Somehow he's getting more exercise than he was before.

He and I have been friends for years now, though we usually hang out with Nihilism, who helps temper Dread.

The dynamic trio, kind of like the three musketeers, just with less witty banter.

Recently it seems he's found his way into my bed, not for the first time, but definitely for the first time in a while.

He's not all bad, as far as imaginary partners go.

Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, he's a stark reminder that
everything is ever-changing.

Which is appreciated, even if it isn't particularly pleasant.

Mornings are the hardest, tearing myself from next to him and shuffling into the kitchen to make coffee and start work.

He hangs around and sits on the counter taunting me, the things he says are in jest but he doesn't realise how much I internalise them.

He's never been very socially conscious.

By the afternoon I've perked up again, we're bantering over what would have been breakfast.

Nihilism has joined in and is giving dread a run for his money.

Grinning ear to ear with a shit eating smile borne from years of acceptance, understanding and the smallest amount of spite.

Tonight I'll get back into bed, I'll hold the duvet up and wait for Dread to climb in, wrap his arms around me and pull me close.

At times like this, it's nice to be held. Right?

 You are like a smile at a funeral.

That is to say, you can bring joy to the darkest places.

You’re a warm cup of hot chocolate when I’m scared I’ll burn my tongue.

I do not fear the dark, as you walk with me, the glowing heart on my sleeve.

You are the grin that adorns my face when it’s 3 am and I’m stumbling home, I know you’d pick me up if I asked.

You’re in every hug I’ve given and every punch I’ve thrown, adamant that I was in the right.

You are in every tear that’s rolled down my cheeks.

You’re also the tissue (sorry, sleeve) that wipes them away. 

My poems haven't always been so cheerful, don't inspire smiles.

Remembering you've always got my back? It makes me want to try.

You are every line I have ever erased.

You’re also my reason to write in the first place.

Yeah, I could fly into the sun.
If I got round to it.
It'd be like, fulfilling destiny or something.
And I'll probably have to do it at some point.
But for now, soaring, gliding, being free?
That'll do.
Sometimes, I get the urge to do it.
I start the run up and launch myself from the highest platform I can find.
And trust in my wings to hold me in the sky.
With the wind in my hair, heat on my face, bittersweet sting in my eyes
Free of the ground and it's limitations.
And. Then.
As soon as I get close to faltering, feeling that familiar drop in my stomach.
I stop. I ease up and fly right.
Cause' what good would that do?
So for now, I'll keep on soaring, gliding...

I’ve pulled them to, several times. Even tried to close them firmly with intent.

Ensured that the metallic “thunk” of the latch clicks into place securely.

But I have never slammed the door on you. Not even when I should have.

 1. The first time, it was unbidden. Not unwelcome, just unexpected.

2. The second time, it was with intent, but control, you held back.

3. The third time you didn’t exercise the same restraint, smiling against my lips, a hint of teeth present.

4. The fourth time you took my hands and pulled them behind you with a gentle tug, resting them on the small of your back and a twinkle in your eye.

5. The fifth time I cupped your face gently, running my thumb over the line of your jaw and leant down to press my lips to yours, the pressure of your smile imprinted onto mine.

 There's this smile you have.

Well, actually there are a lot of smiles you have.

But this one, this one you do feels different.

There's the smile you give me when things are hard. The one that says, I'm sorry you feel this way, I'm here.

There's a cheeky grin you give me, a twinkle in your eye, when you're up to something.

Which is almost always.

The sarcastic one, filled with barely disguised affection. The edges of your mouth upturned, slightly.

Then there is this one, the one that says, "Hey, it's all gonna be okay" in spite of everything that's happening contradicting it.

And you know what? I genuinely believe you.

I always forget where my hands are when someone kisses me, when you do, I don't care.
 

They're wherever they're meant to be, if I'm close to you.
 

Usually these feelings cause a ruckus in my chest, as it tightens in anticipation, maybe fear.
 

This time, they're abated, you make me feel calm, at peace. There is no fear here, no judgement.
 

I definitely expect a tummy ache or sweaty palms, but neither come.
 

Holding your hand makes me feel strong. Reassured. Present.

When we were a sunrise, we got to see so many beautiful mornings together, over coffee and croissants. Mornings spent giggling and in comfortable silence or holding one another, a cushion to reality. 

Now, we’re a sunset, watching the flowers close up for the night - saying goodbye when the light fades, watching each other grow on opposite sides of the field. It’s still beautiful, in its own way. I’m so glad we can still wave at each other. 

I don’t know you yet. 

I want to though.

You and I, we remain this unlimited opportunity. 

Holding a thousand different futures, each smile and laugh; a butterfly effect waiting in rapt anticipation. 

One step could change everything. 

I want to know how you take your coffee. Your favourite fruit. What you taste like in the morning. What your first album was. First concert. If you like marmite? Do you like sour sweets? Ice cream? Do you have any allergies?

How do you treat your books - do you let them get bashed about in pursuit of what’s inside, eager to learn? Or do they get held with reverence? Resting gently, carefully placed on a shelf, the untold story inside as precious as the pages holding it all-together?

I want to know who your favourite relatives are. What your favorite dad joke is. What you would sound like if I was brave enough to kiss you. If you would laugh, or would lean into it, as nervous but excited as I am.

Which power ranger you fancied, if any? (You missed out if not) What your childhood teddybear looked like. Do you still have them? Do they still live in your house?

Do you prefer sand or stone beaches?  Are you a fan of liquorice? I wanna know what superpower you’d have if you could choose one. I wanna know if I’m right, that your hand would fit in mine and It would feel like a puzzle piece coming home. 

Or maybe I never get to find out any of this, maybe you walk out of my life at the exact right moment or wrong moment, or maybe, just maybe there is no right and wrong, but... hey, you are still gone 

You know when someone points out a noise you weren't paying attention to? Something different out of the whirling mass of sounds? 

When you simply don't hear it, until you do. 

That's what this is like. 

Before, you were this frequency that I hadn't tuned into, a gentle hum the universe was playing on repeat, your heartbeat - vibrating at such a low frequency, that sinks down into your bones.

It’s a quiet broadcast, but that’s the opposite of the way it feels, thrumming under the surface and ricocheting around my ribs. 

You see, the thing about someone pointing it out? 

You can't get it out of your head, like a catchy pop song or the vibrant buzz you can't ignore. 

All I know, is that I'm tuned into you now, and I can't seem to switch channels.