When friends was the first thought
of how things were between you and me
I just remember how good it felt
to have you
for a friend
And yeah of course I still feel it too
Because how can I look at you
and not
kiss you
But when friends was everything
        That was really something
Because the pieces of my soul don't require definition
They just need to feel complete
The things made of love don't have names
because there isn't one so adequate

Palm Trees

How I love these palms
that for years of my life
felt so distant.
Even with an abundance at my fingertips
here in this tiny beach town,
upon reflection, it dawns
I seldom touch them.
I only admire their gleaming wispiness,
soft in the thick, warm air.

Oddly enough, when the palms fall to the ground
I find them less appealing
even though they are really the same.

But Golden Hour palms sway alone,
The sun sees her reflection with a tint of life
And the word happy receives a visual definition.

Welcome to the tropics
where neon is a neutral
and vibrancy is the natural state of being.
The summery air squeezes your heart
and despite being in a place meant for holiday
a small piece of it feels like home.

For a Whole Year

For a whole year you've melted my insides

by igniting tiny flames in places of my life that

sometimes I had forgotten existed. 

Mi culpa

Sometimes it can feel like every bad thing that has happened is because of something I’ve done because I’ve messed things up so many times.
And it’s just really hard.
It’s the most lonely feeling realizing that the common thread of your loved ones’ sadness is you.

Maybe I'll never get over it...

I thought that this pain was over,
that when I turned 16, I finally understood that the way
I would have wanted things to be
was not necessarily what was best for everyone.

Those 15 words hit me like 15 bullets,
piercing my skin, driving through my major organs...
"In these moments,
I would love to hear what your mother would have to say."

We are made for dancing

Finding another function of
the human body is impossible
while I am tangled in a string of
synths, beats, ballads, and treble.

What kind of alternative purpose
would my arms carry aside
from rising and falling to tunes
like a refreshing summer tide?

Trancing, dancing, romancing,
the bobbing of light-washed skulls
frames my perceptional painting--
They carry me through the booms and lulls.

My body -- a crisp leaf, is whisked
and caressed by the slight, mild wind.
Hypnotized and mesmerized, this place
is unlike anywhere I have ever been.

silent tears in the library

The simple-minded would assume that the man who
labors daily for countless hours at a food
cart on the winter streets of New York City
would be someone that would envy
Me: a privileged white girl attending
university on the California coast.

But the truth is, I envy this man because
he has the privilege of being able to serve
you
and see your warm smile
as the hot and slightly greasy Styrofoam meets your
cold hands, bitten by the winter air. He watches
you turn, nodding your head to the beats of songs
on a playlist that I made for you. I can imagine
this scene but ceaselessly wanting to be in it
is a pain that the man who works the cart
doesn't understand.