In Christ, drawing by Craig Hawkins

charcoal and acrylic on paper, 72” x 54

Love someone like you’re five. Bring your favorite toy to show and tell to impress

him. Watch him hold it in his tiny hands and swell with pride when he says it’s the

coolest toy he’s ever seen. Watch him carefully, for you would be upset if he

accidentally dropped it or broke it. Draw pictures of him in your coloring book, on

blank pages, in the margins, outside the lines. Hang these drawings up on the

refrigerator, and deny when your mother asks if that’s your little boyfriend. Ask your

mother if he’s allowed to come over. Blush when he hugs you after you’ve scraped your

knee, and smile whenever someone says his name. 

Love someone like you’re ten. Notice that you like all of the same things: the same

songs, the same TV shows, the same colors, the same animals. Stand side by side

during your elementary school graduation ceremony and feel a surge of loss course

through his body and then through yours. Wear shiny 99 cent lipgloss and press your

lips against the last page of his autograph book. Leave an imprint of your lips between

the words you wrote, ‘Have a great Summer’ and ‘Call me: 718- 863 – 5089.’ Never to

be friends that way again.

Love someone like you’re fourteen. Let him walk you home one night in December after

hanging out at the arcade. Hold the stuffed bear he won for you tightly in your

shivering hands. When he leans in to steal a kiss from your mouth, let him. Open your

eyes in shock when you realize there’s tongue. Clench his shirt with your fingertips,

close your eyes, rest your open palms on either side of him and be unsure whether you

should pull him closer or not. When it’s over, slap him because that’s what people in

the movies do. Go home, with your heart beating out of its chest, and hope daddy

doesn’t find out.

Love someone like you’re sixteen. Pass him in the hallways at school and try to

transform yourself into something more alluring and confident. Play hard to get. Know

every CD he listens to, his class schedule, where his locker is, and who his best friends

are. Feel like your heart will explode when he signs on Facebook, when he arrives at a

party, or when he looks in your direction. Raise your hand in class and get all the right

answers to assure him that you are smart. Pray that he would ask you out. Get him

alone one night, sit in his car and listen to songs you’ll never forget the words to. It’ll

be the only time you lose your virginity, but the first time you lose yourself.

Love someone like you’re nineteen. Spend hours looking at each other and saying

absolutely nothing. Meet each other’s parents. Text him late at night from the

bedroom of your childhood home when you’re visiting for the holidays. Say, “I wish you

were here.” Drive around town together, put your hand on his knee and watch the

clouds fly by. Live life according to what makes you happy. Play video games, watch

movies, trade pieces of you with him. Break promises you made. Argue with him about

your future, tell him maybe it is all a waste of time. Play love games, ignore him one

day, chat with him the next. Drink to make the pain go away. Love him despite the fact

he now has a girlfriend.

Love someone like you’re twenty-five. Go to the movies even though you’re already

sure you hate going to the movies. Eat at fancy restaurants. Nervously meet his

parents. Spend weekdays and weekends together, get to know each other in the backs

of cabs. Stay up until 4 AM because you’re young again. Go to bed at 9 PM because

you don’t have to prove yourself anymore. Think about him when you’re busy at work.

Don’t feel overwhelmed when he calls instead of text. Don’t feel afraid to be yourself.

Be free.

Love someone like you’re thirty. Not like you’re running out of time, or like your

options are slowly dissipating. Don’t let the idea of marriage take over. Make him

dinner at your place, drink a glass of wine to celebrate. Visit each other’s families

during the holidays. Call him every night, and promise you will spend more time

together when you get off from work. Love him because despite failure and

disappointment and fear, you can’t help yourself. Love him in spite of your past. Love

him in spite of his past. Say ‘I do’ when the time is right.

Love someone like you’re fifty. Like the future has come and gone and will return

again. Tell him you are scared that they won’t need you anymore because they are all

grown up. Let him comfort you and hold your hand. Plan ahead for the future and

travel the world together. Kiss him gently on the cheek and never let his hand go.    

Love someone like you’re eighty. Tell him you will always remember him and that he

will always be in your heart. Look out the window and watch the birds soar and bathe

in the sunlight. Say to yourself one day it will be your turn to do the same. Stare at the

television set and hear, smell, and taste: the result of the world passing you by. Find

yourself satisfied in the way they smile with toothless smiles and the way their eyes

brighten when you read them bedtimes stories. Laugh at the way they cringe when you

give them the sweater you crocheted for their birthday. Count the things you no longer

understand on both hands, then count the one thing that still makes sense, that has

always made sense. Feel it with all your heart, and think to yourself, that’s love.

1. Nickelodeon and Disney channel actually had some quality television programming.

Shows such as Hey Arnold, That’s So Raven, and Lizzie McGuire taught you how to deal

with everyday life situations. Even though they were a bit perplexed, as if we could

really relate to a football headed kid, a teen psychic, and a pre-teen who had her own

cartoon version of herself. 

2. The black Power Ranger was black and the yellow Power Ranger was Asian

because…we were so completely ahead of our time and beyond the capacity to even

think in terms of something as inconsequential as race…well you can be the judge of

that. 

3. Topanga was at some point in human history considered not only a legitimate first

name for a human being, but the kind of name that would cause teenage boys to have

a life-long infatuation. Topanga is the name of the typical girl-next-door who will live,

along with Feeney, in our hearts forever.

4. Knowing every Brittany Spears song was essential if you wanted to be socially

accepted. Admit it, they were annoying yet catchy, and something about them made

you imagine what life would be like if you were famous, spending every night dancing

on your bed and singing into your hairbrush as if you were in your own music video.

Oops I did it again. 

5. At some point, we carried around little plastic eggs with tiny screens on them. In

these screens lived our hearts, our pets, our very own Tomagotchi. We loved them, we

listened to their tiny electronic screams of malnourishment, and we occasionally forgot

to pick up their poop for long enough that they died a tortured, poop-filled death.

They were perhaps our first glimpse into what having children of our own would be

like. We were bad parents. 

6. Furbys were the devil. Enough said. But, seriously, something about those bulgy

eyed, floppy eared fuzzballs always gave you the creeps. And let’s not forget slap

bracelets, because slapping your wrist was always fun. They came in many colors and

patterns, and could easily be traded for more. Ah, slap bracelets, also known as the

silly bands’ ancestor, if you will. We also had lights in our sneakers and wheels in

our heels. Our shoes were cooler than yours.

7. Neighborhood boys were annoying. Whether it was big-framed Urkel from Family

Matters or high-voiced Roger from Sister, Sister, these boys clearly had no regard for

your family home. The nineties were a simpler time, one where we didn’t have to worry

about things like breaking and entering. So, you would repeatedly tell them to go

home, and shudder when they told you they loved you. Go home! But, beware, they

might unexpectedly become hotter in the later seasons.

8. Though on the surface, they are the exact same thing in every conceivable way,

whether you liked The Backstreet Boys or N*SYNC said more about your character than

all of the terrible macaroni art you could ever make in art class.  Justin Timberlake had

stolen our attention with his terrible, icy-blond mini fro.  The Backstreet Boys had

stolen our hearts. Nick was considered the cute blonde (don’t forget his humiliating

younger brother, Aaron). Bryan was the shy, sensitive type. AJ was the hot, dangerous

drug addict. Kevin Richardson was the quiet one with sexy, sculpted facial hair. No one

liked Howie. Choosing between the two groups was like choosing between two beloved

children, but once that line was crossed, there was no turning back.

9. The Hallmark Store invested thousands of dollars in tiny stuffed animals filled with

plastic beans. Yeah, I said it. Beanie Babies were not just significant, they were our first

experiences of envy, greed, and wrath. If someone pulled off that little heart-shaped

Ty tag, so help you God, that was the end of whatever contact you had with that now

monster of a human being. That tag-less Beanie Baby was now trash, and you had to

deal with the consequence. It was at that de-valued Beanie Baby moment, that most of

us accepted the truth…we’ll never have nice things.

10. Board games were far more superior than video games. We were billionaires and

owned property in Monopoly. We were doctors, performing surgery while being careful

to not accidentally slip and set off a red lightbulb and hearing the buzzing sound of

death. We played games such as iSpy, Oregon Trail, and Where in the World is Carmen

Sandiego? And to be honest we couldn’t spy everything with our littles eyes, people in

our wagons died from either illness or drowning, and no one knew where in the world

Carmen Sandiego was. We were quick at our game, and I believe we will always be the

smartest generation.

Is that really your name?

Yes it is, I reply. 

It’s…nice. Can I call you something else for short?

Um…no.

I never really had a nickname.

It’s always either been hey you, or girl, or cutie in the hipster shirt by strangers.

Sweetpea and flaca, by my mother. Or loca by my sisters.

Or as my aunt once called me, a tough act to follow.

I never tried to give a definition to my name.

The compound word that allows my attention to be drawn to whoever uttered those

three syllables.

My name, beautifully ornate as it may be. 

Something that belongs to me, and yet something that people use more than I do. 

The eight letter creation of my parents.

Mary being what my father wanted me to be called, my stage name.

The devoted Catholic, the young prodigy, the ever Virgin Mary.

My mother wanted to label me Anne,

The reason for Mary’s existence, walking amongst mere followers. 

She wanted my name to be as great as a saint’s, Saint Anne,

But all I can see myself living up to is Anne of Green Gables. 

Because like her if you are to call me Anne, it must be spelled with an “e” at the end,

since it makes it so much more distinguished.

And so it was decided that a little punctuation mark would bound me together.

A hyphen that symbolized my parents bond, two names became one.

Was I the glue that held this family together?

The only English name among the sea of Spanish ones.

But those descriptions aren’t me.

I’m not the Virgin Mary. I’m not a saint.

I’m not sure who I am.

I have never met another with this title, this alias.

Except the old Catholic woman who sat in the last pew of the church,

Gray-haired and wrinkled from time was she, but she did not have that proud “e” at

the end of her name, or the hyphen for that matter. 

The name was acceptable in her generation.

Her time.

But is it in mine?

We sit at our desks, rocking steadily back and forth on our seats. A pile of paper,

tossed on the floor, blank with reserved thoughts and unsaid phrases. Crumbled up

into a ball because our words were not honorable enough for the page.

This pile of paper, then gathered without constraint, created an assembly line.

Fortune tellers, too childish to make. Origami birds, too complicated. The white sheets

were separated, carefully creased, and constructed into fifteen soaring arrows meant to

save our mundane lives.

The paper airplanes were second-rate from the start, damaged before they left our

hands by the flaws we accidentally created. Their wings were slightly bent, their nose

slightly crooked, and their folds held no secret. They were carried swiftly by whatever

wind was created as they glided through the room.

However, not all of those brave souls made it. Some crashed instantly to the

ground, never finding the poetry of flawless movement. Others accepted gravity and

found a set landing, and did so delicately, articulately, and full of purpose. They all had

a chance to soar.

One by one each arrow took flight: curling, twirling, swooping about. As they flew, we

felt it, that tenth of a second, brief but ideal, where happiness somehow met the

impossible.

We believed in a power greater than our bodies as we pulled our arm back and

thrusted them forward, releasing the thin arrow from our trembling fingers.

As we watched them fly, we gazed in awe in what we had done. We could become

naughty children once again, flinging them in the back of a classroom. Or we could

pretend they were shooting stars and make a wish. Our bird, our creation, our design.

And as they landed, we knew it wouldn’t last, because we were blue.

We were blue for things that couldn’t be forgiven, things that couldn’t be forgotten.

For moments we borrowed without asking, and for loves we didn’t mean to leave

behind, but did. We were blue because we couldn’t save ourselves, and the piece of

paper we molded couldn’t become greater than what it was.

And when we flew the last paper plane, we noticed the broken flimsy bodies lay

bestrewn at our feet on the hardwood floor. The time to cease had arrived.

For even if we made two hundred and twenty-four more, hoping for some sort of

miracle, we knew we would still be blue. Maybe forever or maybe just until tomorrow.

But because we were so young and oh, so naive, sadness in the form of boredom

would always find us, and claim us for its own.

I beg to show you my teeth,

Each cavity, decaying from this sweet and that sweet.

Birthday cakes, Halloween chocolate binges,

Christmas candy canes, and New Year’s Eve treats.

I smile big, 

With coffee-stained, squares.

Bones not white as snow,

No matter how much toothpaste caresses my mouth.

I laugh, 

And I reveal the unkept promise to continue to floss everyday until the next six month visit.

I swallow whole,

Sink my canine-like fangs into a four am moon,

Suck up it’s juices, drink it’s spirits.

Quenching my thirst, and giving my teeth purpose.

My teeth, who never touched metal braces,

Who never bit off more than they could chew.

These bones may be slightly crooked, but unlike my spine,

It is a string of lights defining a luminary soul.

They will never cease to shine.

I speak in tongues, cause I have eaten so many before.

My teeth biting off the last piece of fruit,

The apple I now call my friend.

(via h-e-r-o-i-n)

I can’t stand college. Not because of the stressful assignments, the snooty art

professors, or the hipsters and the people who define me as such. Not the constant

struggle to keep my eyes open in Art History, the rumbling in my stomach from not

eating a full meal, or the papers that come out of nowhere, almost as if they were

piling up on my desk in a box called now. As if now will ever see the light of day.

Tomorrow, tomorrow. I’ll finish this homework tomorrow. For I will live a million

tomorrows and cleanse in the yesterdays of days to come. I will massage the

macrocosm’s back. Relieve its spine. The way I twist through time. Time. There’s not

enough time. 

I can’t stand college. Not because of the people I call friends. Those people that I can’t

remember if we embraced or shook hands when we first met. Or how we even met at

all? Those faces you see when you walk to class. That’s right, those people. Whom you

would hang out for about a month, get drunk together, maybe go to the club, share a

class or two, and possibly hang out at each others dorms. Those people that suddenly

disappear from your life, weeks on end, only to make cameo appearances on your

newsfeed. No one questions the disappearance, life just goes on. The dissipation

waxes and wanes like the moon and you’ll see these faces and names from time to

time. 

I can’t stand college. Not because friendship here is not like it was when you were

seven. Money replacing the chocolate chip cookies your mom baked and allowed you

to bring to school to share. Or the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that made you

popular because it was the most tradable during lunch.

What does a friend even mean these days? We collect friends like they’re cards.

Stacking them one by one. The good cards on the top and the bent ones, we forgot we

had in our pockets on the bottom. We keep the ones that matter most in an album and

trade the ones that don’t in exchange for cards with more stats on the back to better

our collection. But that’s not why I can’t stand college.

Don’t get me wrong I like this place. The endless nights laughing and reminiscing with

your roommate, staying up past 2am when you know you’re probably going to feel like

a zombie in class the next day. The numerous challenging art projects that keep you

busy and make you question why the hell you wanted to be a Graphic Design major.

The fact that Netflix is now your savior providing the miracle of watching Hey Arnold

and other shows that brought you joy on your 13” laptop just so you can escape and

feel like a child again. It’s those days when you feel brave enough to wear heels to

class, knowing that your feet may kill you at the end of the day, but you like how they

go with your outfit. Or maybe it’s the Ramen soup that’s easy to make, warms your

stomach, and saves you a trip to the dining hall in the freezing cold. The only thing I

dislike about college is the lack of silence.

  Whether it is the jackhammers tearing apart the concrete at 6 o’clock in the morning,

the cries of construction that steal precious moments of sleep, the people who clearly

have not heard of the invention of headphones, or the people that forgot they have an

inside voice. There is way too much noise. I’m sorry, but your constant commotion is

disrupting my college life. Is it too much to ask you to turn it down a bit?  If I could

assign a volume button to life I would. Turn the knob until it reads mute. Imagine how

amazing college would be. 

I found this drawing online and thought it was funny. It’s from a series on How to be a Hipster.

http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/82esQz/www.verbal-vomit.com/2011/03/how-to-be-hipster-chapter-1.html

Let’s see. 

To do: Read the short story “The Great Wall of China” by Franz Kafka. 

Oh goodie, found it online. Oh, and it’s five pages long. I can read that and write a two

page response in no time. I’m just going to take time out from work to watch this cute

puppy video. Aww, he’s so adorable. Look at the little puppy say Elmo. ELMO! And that

related video of the dog hugging a monkey, that one is ok to watch too. I mean it’s

only 2 minutes and ten seconds long, might as well. Oh, there’s the video of a monkey

riding on a pig…baby monkey. I’ve never seen such a cute monkey. Ok I can watch

that, it’s no problem, and look Youtube knows just what I need, a replay button. I’m

expanding my knowledge here so it’s fine — I’ll know what it looks like when baby

monkeys need a pig to cling to. It’s good for me. I’ll be a smarter person.

I’ve been working for an hour now. Well, it’s probably only been half an hour, seeing as

I’ve mostly been focusing on this Facebook message with this person I really want to

sleep with, eventually. Well, I’ve been sitting at my desk for an entire hour, at least. I

need to stretch. I need to take a little walk around the room right now, it’s healthy for

my body. My actions are justified — I’m being healthy. I need to burn calories. Wow,

that was an intense walk around the dorm. I must have burned at least five calories. I’m

going to be sore tomorrow.

I can’t get any of this work done with my desk the way it is. I must clean and organize

it! It is the right thing to do.

Okay, my laptop is calling me back now. Facebook chat, Tumblr, and Skype are all

open. It’s fine, they’ll just provide ‘micro-breaks’ every minute or so. That way, instead

of taking like one or two longer breaks, I’ll just sit in front of the computer all day,

occasionally chatting and stuff, and it won’t be an issue. It’s just a different way to

organize my time. I’ll call it almost constant distraction.

Oh! Occupy Wall Street in on the news again. The cops in NYC took away Occupy Wall

Street’s generators! What?! I must read these stories right away. I must stay informed!

Work can wait, I need to know what’s happening now.

Am I hungry right now? I think I might be hungry. What’s in the fridge? Hmm… doesn’t

look like much. I definitely don’t feel like preparing something. A bowl of cereal? Nah,

only the end is left — hate that. I should probably get to work. I’m not really hungry.

But, I feel like I should snack on something, anything. I need to go to the fridge again,

maybe I missed something. Oh look, candy. Thank God for Halloween.

I need to check my email again. Even if it is for the sixteenth time today. Refresh.

Refresh. Refresh. Ok no one loves me enough to send me an email. Oh, a Facebook

notification. Someone out there does love me!…or just wants me to help out their Sim.

If I drink a little, it’ll loosen me up. I can’t think of how to start on this response, and if

I just have one glass of wine I’ll feel less stressed and better able to come up with a

great intro. This is a really solid idea, it’s totally justifiable. This is justified. Don’t

worry that this isn’t justifiable. You’re not being an alcoholic here. Wait, I’m all out of

wine. Damn.

Is that footsteps I hear? Who is standing outside my door? What is that sound? I must

inspect this sound. It must be dealt with. I cannot work with this weird sound bothering

me! No work will happen until I locate the mystery sound and stop it. Evil dragon? Is

that you? Oh, no I’m on Youtube again.

Oh my god, the internet went out. I know that I don’t need the internet for this

response. I have been working on it in a Word document, but I can’t be without the

internet. What if someone emails me something important? What if I miss an important

status update? I want to watch Hey Arnold. The internet is not coming back on. That’s

it! It’s been too long. I have no other choice — I’m going for a walk to the Old Library.

Story of my life!

My face has about 50 muscles, of which 43 take to frown and 17 to smile. My face has

14 bones, one facial nerve, and about a square foot of skin. Two dark, dirty brown

eyes, my father’s nose, and a few moles here and there. Zits that come and go like

unwanted house guests. Dark circles around my eyes if I don’t get enough sleep.

Craters when I smile. Bugs Bunny front teeth, two bushy brows, and a prominent chin. I

tan easily in the Summer and lose it in the Winter. Peachy skin. Out of a 96 pack of

Crayola Crayons, my face would be Desert Sand. In Adobe Photoshop it would be

#EDC9AF. 

My face is made up of over 50 trillion atoms. If somehow all those atoms were turned

into atomic bombs, my face would really mess shit up.

My face is normal, average. It might even under some circumstances be considered

above average. Like if I were to post a picture on Facebook, and if that picture were

taken in natural light, perhaps at sunset, with a shallow depth of field, and my face was

turned at a three-quarter profile, looking away from the camera, smiling without

showing my teeth, I might get about 5 likes.

How did a picture of me in a costume get 27 likes? How did one of me as a hipster get

18? Are those people really me?

Is it possible to paint a self portrait with words? Rather than pencil? How do blind

people see themselves, when they touch their own faces with their fingers? Is “I feel

hot” really going through their minds?

I usually hate how I look in pictures, my face frozen in a stunned smile. My hair out of

place. I can be engaged in the most serious, intellectual conversation, but the second

someone whips out a camera and says “Cheese!” I’m instantly transformed into a red

faced, grinning moron. A fool as the flash stuns my eyes, dilating my pupils, making

me blind. Eww, erase that picture, I say. I look terrible. 

Why is it in our nature to be repulsed my ugly images of ourselves? Trying to imitate

models on the covers of magazines. The duck face being engraved in our minds as the

only acceptable sexy smile. Are we really that insecure? No, I look damn fine in that

cross eyed, big haired, tongue out image of myself. Cause why they hell not? Thank

you for taking that frame and showing the world how I’d really look if time stopped at

any random moment. 

My face: 50 muscles, 14 bones, one nerve, and about a square foot of skin. Two

chocolate brown eyes, a beautiful nose, and a few beauty marks. Zits that come and go

proving my skin is healthy. Dimples when I smile. Wild, fierce brows, a strong chin.

Apricot skin. Out of a 96 pack of Crayola Crayons, my face may be Desert Sand. But I

consider it more of a thriving camel.

(via simplymary-anne)

I can’t remember if we embraced or shook hands when we first met.Or how we came

about exchanging our ideas, or what we had in common. How did we end up wasting

hours on end discussing all the things we loved as kids? Does that make us friends?

The loose definition of friendship is something I question. On paper, it would seem like

my social life has expanded in a year. I know more people in now than I ever have

before.

I Facebook chat, send emails, and Skype with people every day. I’ll hang out with

someone I genuinely adore for about a month. We’ll get drunk together, maybe go to a

show or the club, and possibly go to each other’s houses. And then, unprompted, it

will just stop. We’ll disappear from each other’s lives, only to make cameo appearances

on one another’s newsfeed. Plans will be made to hang out and maybe it’ll happen or

most likely it won’t.

The one thing that I notice about all of this that makes me a bit uneasy is that no one

questions the disappearance. It’s somehow implicitly understood that you’ll have these

moments with people, only to watch them dissipate. It waxes and wanes like the moon.

Once in a blue moon. The person you went to the club with doesn’t necessarily see you

in the daytime. You can’t really count on them for much and it goes both ways. The

funny thing is that when you see each other, you’ll bare your soul. You’ll discuss jobs,

disappointments, your love life, your fears. It’s as if you’re bonded, attracted like

magnets. And then, just like that, you separate.

It’s not like friendship when you were seven. Money has replaced the chocolate chip

cookies your mom baked and allowed you to bring to school to share. All I know is that

when you get older, you’re cluttered with these static friendships and it becomes

harder to find that daytime friend, to find that person you can truly depend on.

What does a friend even mean these days? With social networking sites and all of our

technological gadgets, it’s been made clear that our BFF—the thing we see the most is

an object, not a person. The more connected we become, the more disconnected we

become from each other. This is an argument that we’ve heard forever but damn it’s

true. We collect friends like they’re cards. Stacking them one by one. The good cards

on the top and the bent ones, we forgot we had in our pockets on the bottom. We

keep the ones that matter most in an album and trade the ones that don’t in exchange

for cards with more stats on the back to better our collection.

It’s hard to find quality friendships in your late teens. Chances are people have already

found the meat of their social life and now they’re just searching for the dressing. It is

what it is. The thing that annoys me is when someone’s name is mentioned and, on

instinct, I say, “Oh, he or she is a friend of mine!” And then I think to myself, “Wait, no

they’re not. We sometimes text each other and I see them out at parties. They have no

idea what I do during the day, who my family is, where I come from. They are not my

friend!” Perhaps they’re my “pal”, which still somehow feels like a generous description.

Another Person I Sort Of Know sounds more accurate.

Eyes closed, 

Hair tousled. 

Inexperienced lovers trying to express profound sentiment, 

In a language they had not yet learned to speak,

In tongues that no one dares to teach.

Not sure if we embraced or shook hands when we first met.

But nevertheless,

It’s been the same ever since.

Oh, how your entrance into my world has been defined,

By the existentialism of my innocent mind.

How the rising of the sun,

When our psyches were at rest.

Balanced the way we lay sunken in this bed,

Fooling our eyes into believing it was reality.

I need to read what’s in your head,

Or what desire dragged its feet there instead.

So take your dirty socks,

Your old brown shoes,

And place them with the things you never washed.

Those dreams that didn’t come true, 

Never could, but should,

Gather those ideas, 

Lock them away in a box called now.

As if now will ever see the light of day,

Tomorrow, tomorrow,

I’ll love you tomorrow.

For I will live a million tomorrows,

And cleanse in the yesterdays of days to come.

Blinded are we,

Lost in the idea of becoming one

When we were clearly designed for more

Who are we to call ourselves lovers? 

Label ourselves as soul mates.

Where do I stand?

In the midst of it all

You massage the macrocosm’s back 

Relieve its spine, 

The way you twist through time

Has time really brought your soul to mine?

I hunger for brand new day,

Thirst for a chance to say,

That the lion has indeed fallen for the lamb. 

The question is which one of us is the prey?