Wandering-writer-poet - Wanderer.writer.poet

Everything feels the same, now. 

That is to say, 

Everything feels like coming to life. 

That is to say, everything

Feels like dying anew. 

.

—resurrection (y.c.)

Ver • ti • go

(noun)

1. Standing on a rooftop with you and your

daredevil smirk and unfaltering gaze; the

warmth of your hand as you took mine,

joy turning my world to a dizzying

kaleidoscope of scents and colours

2. Standing in an empty flat with pieces of you

and me scattered on the floor; feeling that

chasm opening inside me and knowing your

wouldn’t be here to catch me, not this time

(—Yushan C.)

I am rediscovering how to love

The way I used to when I was five. Before Love

Was swept under the rug and 

Freedom became the only prize. 

Fear runs rampant, dominates—Panic is seeds sown by a 

         careless farmer—

But here, in this moment, without distraction, 

        without fear, 

I am rediscovering what it means to love despite 

       the flaws we hold. 

Here in this moment, 

I am redefining who I choose to be.

If one thing must come from this living, 

barring death, 

let it be the choice to love again, 

despite Love’s faults in the past. 

.

—in the space between here and then (y.c.)

I do not know how to go on 

With you, 

And I do not know how to go on 

Without you. 

This is our liminal space, our

Handcarved pocket of eternity. 

Always here and always leaving and maybe, 

in a hundred years or a few seconds, 

we will find our way out of this trap. 

.

—y.c.

I thawed, didn’t I?

Like winter ice in spring, 

Mountain run-off streaming into brooks and rivers. 

I felt the warmth of life—

Blossoms bloomed crimson violet vibrant blues. 

The sun was on my heart; I felt it melt, felt it give. 

Yet now, I stand staring into nothing searching for something; 

I stare at the placid blue surface around me, 

Not a ripple in sight.

This isn’t stoicism, 

This isn’t strength. 

This is calcifying into marble, is dying 

With your eyes wide open, 

Is stranding yourself on a lonesome little island and thinking it might

       not be so bad after all, disappearing.

I thawed, yes, but now 

I think all that was keeping me from sinking was the permafrost 

And now, that’s gone, too. 

(remind me: how did I ever mistake disappearing for flying?)  

-

—Spring Melt (y.c.)

Mother, I think I’m cursed

This air is turning to poison

This heart is falling apart

Mother, I think I’m blind

The path is dark and winding

No light shines on these parts

Mother, I think I’m dying

There’s nothing but numbness here

and a voice whispering, “We’re all mad here”

Mother, I don’t want you to save me

This darkness has begun to feel like home

and it truly has been so long since

I felt at home

— y.c.

Quiet

She was quiet

        But not in a nice way

She was the silent storm

        The blow that came out of nowhere

        The one you never saw coming

She’s been through hell you can’t even imagine

        Her scars are a shield

        Her words are weapons

She can’t be controlled

        Tamed

She is the wild wind

        The rebel without a cause

        The broken fallen angel

She’s beautiful like an ocean in a tempest

        Like a phoenix rising from the ashes

She walks in the wake of battle and turns her head to the blood-red sky 

        And smiles.

She is quiet

        Not in a nice way

She is quiet the way 

        Lightning

Makes no sounds before it

        Strikes       

— Yushan C.