Hot Cocoa! Snow day.

Hot cocoa warms up the cold from the sky,
that fell in my hair and made it okay



to cry.
But the feeling doesn't last,
my stomach has frostbitE and
my heart has the cold sweats,
like ones rolling down my neck
or not like the ones from the ducts,
my eyes, your eyes, they rise,
the temperature ddrops but I'm warm,




with you.
I'm with you in my head,
and you, and you and you.
You on my hand and
sandcastles that fell
away that day to the fresh water saline,
the waves that made me cold.
And the feelings that were warm,
a cold kind of warm.
Like the bitter type of sweet.
The kind of feelings you would keep.
The kind of feelings you didn't choose


not to lose.
They could leave and fall,
like the leaves that fall,
we flew into them,
we loved through them,
that fall with you.
When you fall, would you ever stop?
Or is it some type of infinity?
Like questions with no answers
or ones with magic.
Like the kind that falls in my hair,
the kind that makes it okay
to want to be somewhere else.
And makes me happy to
be no where but where I am

in my head.
This stuff makes me so complete
and that makes me miss it all.
The things you can't overlook
chances we took that time,
this time there's nothing left.
No time left on the clock
and these starts aren't as fresh
as the pure white in my hair
and on my lips sparkles


in your eyes, my eyes?
They've seen more, and
your's have too.
That burns the scars.

Scars from times
when he held Mom til she wept
and every night we slept,
we were scared.
Magic quilts keep you safe,
but only in these minds,
when there's really nothing to fear.
And in that bed we cried silent tears.
And sometimes I fell out,
and through cracks in the floor,
from cracks in the wall.
But no one ever saw


the scars.
They're healed but they'll
always be opened wounds
because we keep them that way.
We just want to always remember
the day we felt good



feeling so bad.
These type of things don't go away
like the sun wont die.
Because if it did the oceans would
cry and they'd have nothing.
They'd have the moon,
but it's not quite as big.
Not quite as warm
but not so far away
like things that happened on other days.

New days come and they'll be old
days soon.
But we wont forget them,
not even when the hot cocoa warms them



away.

My Sestina.

Paper airplanes fly
as if they’re safe in motion.
Floating through invisible waves
as their wings whisper.
And with my second
thought, it falls like rain.

My eyes are caught on the rain
and the time flies
so slow. I lost count of the seconds.
I’m caught up in this e- motion
it falls into like whispers
of separated, tainted, waves.

Memories ebb and flow like waves
or tiny quiet ripples of rain,
leaving one last whisper..
One that is quieter than flies
on walls, lost from all motion
besides the ticking second.

First feels way better than second
Best, is like hands that wave
and don’t recollect, just a motion.
One that is worthy of reign,
noticed like dirty flies
lingering in your whisper.

The buzz is quiet like the whisper
you’re too proud to use. Second
chances are below the flies
on your body, bruised by waves,
and pulled apart when it rains.
You’re stained by the motion.

But the motion
wont move me, my whisper
remains, drowned out by the quiet rain.
Pits and pats with every half a second.
And I want to give in to the waves,
out to sea. Brought down, but I’ll fly.

Wings of flies are fragile, so they stay in tune with the motion
of salty ocean waves, as they suffocate my whisper.
It hurts for a second, but then I am the rain.