to be loved (is to be known)

alt: loved, volume one (in three parts, five tracks).

track 1 | where i wander

what could’ve been.

butterfly so graceful, yet quiet. empty. hungrily, they stare at her from a pew too far back. quietly, they quell the thumps, dismissing them as they blend with the stampede. hands upon chest, they lurk into acceptance, wading out of treachery into small talk. the weight that drowns them does not affect her, and as her wings flutter they watch in grateful envy.

how did the butterfly get its wings?
slip gracefully, weaving through time & its seams?

when did they notice her smile, wide as the spots she boasted, as she whispered treacheries and truths that could shatter any predator? was it her metamorphosis, or theirs that helped them notice her when it was easier not to?

they wanted to fly, at first. wanted the wings, the grandeur, the looks. as time passed, like the glass they viewed her through, their fascination passed to curiosity. what did she pollinate? who was she before? what cocooned her, and would it happen again?

again?

again. again they begged her to open her wings, to sway her antennae, to flutter towards them. they went from craving the attention to craving her’s, with attention to detail wedged in between. again, they whispered, as she threw her head back, flying high above all else. again, as they spiraled between jealousy and admiration, again as she became the only consistency left.

again before they remembered they were dreaming, and that proximity only existed in writing. again, one last time, before they lost her for good - to the ocean and sky, the blues whose hue never lost its weight.

again.

track 2 | far

distance.

closure in the shadow of metamorphosis. they avoid where she once stayed. unintentionally. unconsciously. the distortion of glorification and the honesty of time caught up to their fantasy. exclusivity elusive in its timing. a room, banded together, filled with conversation. the butterfly was made of metal, it seemed, and passengers buzzed in their absence.

presently, she was open. honestly flowed through her lips like music, the plants she used to pollinate evidence of the experience she held like honey in her voice. choice opened in the difference. silence transferred from anxious feet, the concert of catching up feels foreign to these…

strangers? acquaintances? friends? labels of proximity don’t fit, but neither does forgoing them.

(again)

the journey to wholeness was never one-sided. they’d stolen glances at the path they had left, picked crumbs from the trail of greatness. but never dared to enter.

want, they had realized, was a fickle thing. to want what they did not know, to lack understanding of what they had, it had changed their line of sight. their body reacted appropriately, yet now they didn’t know what appropriate was.

mystical, magical, muse. all they used to describe her revealed as ruse. for them, or for her, they would never know. lips silenced as she spoke, they never showed what she might-

have been. past tense. the conversation dulls, the rockets flare as take-off begins. on the ground they stay, hesitant instead of chasing, with the understanding they may never cross again. broken once, right twice, the clock strikes the end of any fight left for what they were.

and when the plane soars, and the distance grows, the knowing keeps them from leaving, too.

(again)

track 3 | bitter

sweet. taste comes to mind when she speaks. boisterous, benevolent, benign? harmless confessions around dancing within studios. time looks malnourished as flourishing winds blow-

chances. away. sit down confessions give way to embarrassment. cherish the moments, the height of the terror. the flavor, first bitter, from the moment of entry. the bang of realization, the stomp of denial, the fluster of hope. the note held too long, as the chord of discord plays.

charted tongues play with words all day. lust, love, like-

listen. as the pattern changes, the bitterness turned sweet. the follows of musings to the widow of their peak. they trail opportunity as the taste mixes neatly. timely, in the backdrop of messiness. past blended with present as lessons lack evidence.

accountable, deranged. the contrast is insane. between the sour of yesterday, and the sugar of today. tomorrow holds uncertainty, but the taste has since drained.

down the pipe.

the flush of water rushes like realization. hurt becomes serene as the scene calms in the background. surely the candy wasn’t so sweet, or its taste as bitter. surely confusion played a role, or the background played filler.

vivid.
bittersweet.
vicious.
sugar-sour.
vast.

like candy, the flavor was never meant to last.

track 4 | october

like dates on the calendar, they forgot when it was most convenient.

when texts illuminated became words appreciated, while proximity brought symphonies of past idiocy. intimacy exists in a bind of deniability, as the deadline closes in. inked in black, circled back is the day they decided to love. as the day brushed against them, the night fell upon them, they’d made up their mind to attend.

to attention-shift their project to a new month.
a new era, as dawn settled in the space created.

uncertainty never looks good on paper, but the boxes followed feel distorted somehow. time flies when fun is had, as the presences left it behind. future of peaks and hollows stand loud in the silence of planning. from the schedule changes to the itineraries, rarely does the future hold nothing in store.

sure, paper often leads to forgetfulness, and virtuality is doomed to snooze. they mute their transgressions with her, quiet their qualms as she takes the lead.

she.

exists beyond dates, and times, and seasons. she cups reason in her hands and splashes it wherever she wishes, dishing truth and its formalities to whoever she sees fit.

fitted in clothes and sheets, heat travels from her body to theirs as they blend. just like time, like the dates they refuse to go on. just a little longer, they say, as the deadline passes over and over again. just a little more they write, as their drabbles morph to love letters, their tongue mounted with praise.

expiration works backwards in love. deciding to pursue it is a goal they’d hoped would never come to fruition. they can deny it in-person, scribble it on paper, move it technologically.

but really, the decision had already passed.

track 5 | pink in the night

the end of an era.

overdue.

with pages torn and covers bruised.
books without pages, age shown in the dust that spread in the crevices.

discussions, clubs, spurned around possibility. possibly, they wished to re-admit their folly, but publicly they cannot. in the quiet of their room they listen for what could have, should have, and would have - but never for what is.

pink dots freckle the dwelling as they laid. paid mind to the tracks they composed, the playlists they compiled, the miles a minute their thoughts run. admit it.

admit that they loved once. and twice. and a third time. the pink spreads to purple, then to red, then to blue. three lovers, confusion sparked and reality fused. who knew their ending before it started, that somewhere they’d fallen solemn to the autumns of yesteryear?

believe that they’d love again. and again. and again. and another time, again. over and over, they would fall, and get back up, and fall again. once, twice, three times at once, as clocks wind back and intuition stops. hindsight will always look current in past, and sight will always seem blind in future.

confess that it was worth it. every single one. the curiosity of butterfly, the intensity of bittersweet, the uncertainty of she. the ones that fell in-between, or the ones that encompassed these. every moment wasted was another one gained. every person lost was another story found. another adventure, a mystery, a rollercoaster of wins and defeat. all of it formed them.

all of them formed me.