One morning you’re going to wake up and see that love is all around you.
That you’ve been looking for it in all the wrong places, and all the wrong sources.
There’s no saving Them, because Their hearts are cloaked in darkness, dark things, dark words,
But you, you’re the light,
You are a blinding glare, no ordinary person could ever directly look upon..
Your light is what the world needs right now, what They need right now..
So don’t keep waiting, don’t tug at the ropes of boats that try so hard to abandon the dock.
Let them go, let them sail with their forever discontented weight,
For your reddened palms need a break from that tight grip,
So let me say it again..
That love grows in the most unlikely of places, and let me tell you where,
In the nest of two black and white birds looking after their young,
It grows on every leaf, every tree, every vine, stone, and stream..
It blossoms when flowers come to life, it sets with the sparkling orange sun, and rises anew, light yellow and pink..
Love grows in the far off green mountains, and in the deep ant colonies, further beneath this earth,
Love is rain, love is stories written in books, hearts, souls, and smiles,
Love is kind, it’s forever content, its forever unparalleled and sudden, yet it’s always found..
he sat beside her, on the icy cold floor, cupping his palms, on her trembling face, holding it as if it were a tiny flame; a flame, neither fierce nor mild, like a heartbeat, and said nothing. in the remaining few seconds, which seemed like an eternity, she nodded over and over and over again, and burst into an uncontrollable sob. soaking his palms now, tears began to drip in small rivulets along his arms and made their way into God Knows Where.. like that, just like that, years of heartache flooded from her eyes, years of half-dying words, insecurities, and mistrust pushed their way out of her, and so she pressed her hands to her chest as if to pin down her heart which had begun to soar in its new found lightness.. just like that, good things had a peculiar way of coming back to her.
my mother built a swing when i was just a little girl of four, in red, green, and blue - painted t'was. and the colours were very pretty, when they shone in the sun. the winds ruffled my ponytails as i swung myself into the air. and i'd just sit there and swing, day after day, and sometimes even after darkness cloaks the hill, and before my mother cries: "it's time to get inside!" i wondered as i swung, how the moon too, swung itself with me. in the year i turned five, my mother gave me another, but this time, a sister, and not the merry-go-round i had made her pinky-swear to give me. this year i shall be twenty five, and the swing on the hill, twenty one, dear God, has it been so long? yet it stands so strong as if it were only built yesterday. although the colours of the swing have gone, and we, moved on, i visit my swing on the hill sometimes for therapy. because the old swing now has become such a sight to my burdened memory. time does fly, without so much of a flutter, and i guess that's how things are meant to be.