People are infinite,
complicated, and small;
they are pieces of star
with nothing and
all things in common,
and just like the space
from which they came,
they are strange
and unknowable too.
People are infinite,
complicated, and small;
they are pieces of star
with nothing and
all things in common,
and just like the space
from which they came,
they are strange
and unknowable too.
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Looking closely
you will see,
people are like blades of grass:
too often stepped on;
luscious,
but hiding quiet ground
underneath.
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Love is like
walking up a mountain:
it peaks where the air is thin,
but can’t start with
cutting off both of your feet.
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Everything you have
is packed neatly into a suitcase
whose wheels
drum the pavement
like a heartbeat.
No one has enough pockets
to carry all the things
you give them,
and then they’re left behind
un-clutched to anyone’s chest.
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People are like rivers
trying desperately
to burst through dams.
Don’t argue about
where each of the drops goes
if you can’t see where
the stream began and
you’ve never lived
in a raincloud.
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Living
is a lot like
sitting in traffic:
when you realise
everyone is doing it,
it becomes far easier to wait
for the green light
to appear.
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People overrun their brains
like the engine of a race car,
but high speeds mean
you may well crash,
and – besides – just like driving,
nothing is really that interesting.
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You only have five fingers,
one on each hand.
They are better off
holding on to other people than
the tension in your shoulders.
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Some people
are brilliant;
some are terrible.
Close your eyes,
cross your fingers,
and aim for somewhere
in the middle.
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Once you realise
that all things
are frightening
and dangerous,
nothing at all
seems that scary.
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Even animals
destined to be
eaten by lions
drink the water
and run the land.
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Some stars
are already gone
by the time you notice them,
but they still shine
in the dark.
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Rivers don’t get offended
when rocks get in
the way;
you’re only
seventy percent water,
so neither should you.
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Everyone is wearing clothes
that were not
made for them;
you are not the only one
who has borrowed
someone else’s shoes.
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Everyone is panicking;
shaking hands only shake
while their fingers try
to cling on the the cliff edge.
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There is no sense
in sleeping in;
being awake
is the best way to dream.
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As they walked through the park, cold biting at the parts of their skin they allowed to shine out with the moonlight, a hush placed itself delicately in the air, like a small bird upon a branch. In the dark, the few people around might just have easily been stowed away in their homes; as it was, they did not even whisper along with the gentle wind. And she, that winding breath of air, curled through the grass, through hair, through leaves, like lovers’ fingers intertwining. Like those lovers. And so, in peace, they looked out to the sky above, taking in the glow of every star, no idea which were where, nor what it all meant. Together, though, they had no real interest; the seeming magic which danced in the sky was happening, in vivid real-life, on the ground below.
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Out walking,
looking for stars,
it does not matter
if you cannot find them,
when one has already
fallen at your feet.
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If only every weekday
could have weather so poor
and mornings so rushed
that the only solution
was vehicles and
hot drinks
and you.
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Snow falls
when things are just right,
and then joy begins;
under
the same conditions,
people fall even faster –
and then joy,
again,
like pure white snow.
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Forget to count
the
hours,
and just roll around
the sun;
then you’ll never have to
wish
that the brightest moments
wouldn’t end.
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Some things
are let slip
in the snow;
funny,
how winter
can make you
feel warm.
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The only way
to know
if two pieces go together
is to try;
puzzles
are meant to be solved,
and halves
are meant to be whole.
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You dropped yourself
into the middle
of a field
I told you not to walk in,
but it turns out
the views
are really quite beautiful,
and I might just
join you there.
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There is a rule of three
wherein there is a third degree
which asks how it can be
that only three more times I’ll see.
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Sometimes falling asleep
is an act of intimacy,
where sleeping dreams
meet waking ones,
and collide
in vivid colour.
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Yours is a face
which needs no improving;
all shape and smile
and piercing green circles,
stitched
in a perfect pattern.
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Some gifts
are wrapped up
in knitted jumpers
and blue jeans,
tied together by hands
in fingerless gloves
and decorated
with hats and silly T-shirts,
sporting tags that read:
‘Morning, handsome’.
Some gifts are priceless,
wrapped up in knitted jumpers
and blue jeans.
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Returning here alone,
with your familiar smell
still clinging to my clothes,
is like never having left
and always being home.
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On the last day
the sun makes way for the moon,
and he is gone.
With each new dawn,
they can but miss each other,
until she has bargained
with enough gods
to bring him back to light.
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