Years in Sepia

we live to see the mistakes our parents bark

we cry some dying afternoons, hurting because we hurt back.

we grow seedless tears
squeezing our hearts empty
for every bit we do out of the box,
the box they created for us
the box they created for themselves

we are part our mothers,
part our fathers
locked in years spent in sepia

where we love, hate and learn.

but most of all,

 
we are ourselves.

innocent, toothless and clueless grins
trapped in forgotten moments of young years.
embraced and rejected millions of times
by harmless words that scar.

we walk on unknowing but wanting
to find some place to belong
some place to smile
and be the old souls that we are

innocent, toothless and clueless grins.

♥

100th ♥

You are everything beautiful,

And my best memory.

Ps. For the rest of our lives, let’s keep making the best moments together (whether it’s raining or not, with or without an umbrella). 66

Stick art by  Q. A. W.

because…

I love you.

But you’re not here now,

so I’m having your favorite instead.

Jollof rice.

Or at least what became of my attempt

to cook it. So I can experience

what my man’s favorite dish tastes like.

I cooked buffalo chicken wings

with it. I wish you were here

to have them with me.

On this day.

Our day.

53 kisses for me.

57 for you. Today.

♥

fifteen lines

You are my perfect conversation,
and the kind of cool that overwhelms.
I would bleed my toenails purple,
make countless typos or bald my hair empty
just to have your babies.

I wish you’d hear the builders, and  
the cats when they moan, and my heart.
You see, they remind me of you.
The early mornings and late nights of you.

Some days I hug my pillows,
trace the edges of their covers,
and smile imagining they were your skin.

Through a window in this part of the world,
if I only had fifteen lines, what can I say?

You are my fifteen lines.

Happy 15th ♥! 66

Papa

Your old hands told me

the busy years you spent

managing people and afternoons

to cut off the trees

that made one bastard filthy.

Your old hands told me

the quiet months you spent

in your rocking chair and pajamas

clueless of the seconds, hours,

days, months and years that passed.

Your old hands told me

the hurting days you spent

when your sons and daughters

grew up to be old-looking children,

lost , defeated, crying the years that wasn’t.

Your old hands told me

the elated hours you spent

cheering and playing with your gandchildren

as they battled personalities of giants

trapped in their small hands.

Tomorrow they will burry

the busy years, the quiet months,

the hurting days and the elated hours

that dawned those old hands.

I will not forget what they told me Pa.

Please be happy.