There is nothing like a fig which has wept honey. Nothing. Amber would die a thousand deaths to live just once like this: sweetened drop against the tongue, honey-colored, hard as sap, holding to its form, relinquishing— there is, I tell you, no other world, and there is nothing like a fig which has wept honey—except perhaps a fig which is preparing to weep honey, body grows heavy as a swollen breast, readying itself for loss.
I was a dry chasm, a gully, a gorge, an arid desert, a cold rock quarry,
Then you came, all fish and tail swimming up to hook me.
You mouthed slowly through water as I looked up in awe from the hole of my dry cave.
You shed your scale cloak and peeled off my dismay to meet me within the swaying depths of Your Ocean.
My heart salty tight, you tapped at my chasm waves murmuring from your chest to finally flood me…
Pools of you. Filling my hollow.
— Mircea Sauciuc
I am in heaven, hence free to live by heart, to ad lib as I caress. A soul is light when full, heavy when vacuous. My soul is searching. Not afraid to dance the agony alone, for I was born wearing your burden, will come from the dead with that on my shoulders.
We’re all broken in some way. Many are great at masking it, though. And maybe we’re all great at masking that brokenness.
Some become broken day by day, while some were broken by others in the past and just remain that way. When something’s broken, you cannot further damage it. Damage is damaged, just like love is pure. Just like you.
You’re kind. The way you softly close your eyes, soaking up the sun makes me feel as if you and I are the only ones alive. I live through you. And you through me. Broken. Just like the dream. We’ve always said, if things we only different or met at another time. But the glue that holds us together doesn’t adjust to time. I think what we mean to say is, if we’d met in another dimension, simultaneously. Oh, the times we’re sharing. Here. And there.
An old piece from school that I had dug up in a file. Academically this was a fine piece, but today I’m ambivalent to it; there’s something new that needs to come through it. This is the beauty of holding on to the past as sentiment. We are constantly reminded of not only the way we used to be, but how the world was shaped through our eyes. No one way is right, just like no one way is wrong. It just is. Enjoy.
The story of rain begins inside a person who has survived.
We want to know that not having enough will be okay.
The spin of a fan is summer sleeping, dark-green light from old glowing.
We want to know years out, our lives like violins or new bread.
And now grief-rain falls through leaves and ruins, through mind this rain
and each cell of blood, rain falling mind down through self, rain down to ground
into ground, rain falling ground from light through light, into ground.
Above the city the sky was grey like a dead bride and oftentimes the birds perished by loneliness with tousled feathers on the street of ice where the street lights were on all day long but the dusk filtered into the houses under the doors and the housewives got tired of washing it up and they had to put out the kitties to the backyards because they made such a big mess with their foggy hair.
Our life was like living in a hat and we tried in vain to peep out we couldn’t see its other shore.