Bay to L.A.



Have I mentioned?

Have I mentioned

how much your heart

beats through mine

even after all this time?


Have I mentioned

that your eyes are dreams

and that we swim across our cries

throughout the who’s, the what’s, and the why’s?


Have I mentioned

that the shortcuts we take

to the main road will lengthen the song

that I don’t want to sing anymore—

wherever you are, I belong.


Have I mentioned

that I still see through you

like a stranger in the rain :

yes, we’d love to love again


Have I mentioned

the two things that will heal

our broken bones, broken hearts, and broken souls too

are the two things that started this anyway—

me and you.



it is a dream of mine

to see again

the roguish grin

that was saved only for me


those eyes that talked

through paper-thin walls

those hands that wrote

love letters on my skin


and wouldn’t it be amazing

if our paths collided once again

if our roads diverged

in some certain space and time


and wouldn’t it be amazing

if the secret I’ve held in my heart

for a very long time

was the truth

No Other

there’s no other way

that this tale can be told

the teeter-totter, pit-pat, lub-dub of my heart ;

no other way it can be sold

no other way it can be bought :

no other way you can be sold

no other way you can be bought :

the moonshine and roses to my bed of nails

how wonderful would it be

if i saw the waters in your eyes

ebb and flow

across the room and think

that you are the one for me?

Vermilion Red

Sometimes I like to think

that if I close my eyes

and I mean really close my eyes

and sit still for a little while,

that when I open them,

the world will forgive me for the vitriolic poison I’ve imposed upon you throughout the years.

That the footsteps buried underneath the sand

will be ours from a long time ago,

and that to sit down on our bench by the sea

won’t feel as if screws and nails are drilling into my flesh —

I like to think that the sun will finally

touch the moon’s flesh one day

and feel that she was the cause of

the holes, the craters, the wounds :

stiff, like rigor mortis —

And that I wasn’t just a girl

standing in front of a boy

asking him to love her ;

I like to think that I was more than that.

I like to think that one day,

we’ll be blanketed under the sheath of the sun and

allow its light to heal our wounds, fill our craters —

allow the light to finally drown our darkness.

Ab aeterno

Take away the time

it’s getting in the way ;

Do not mourn

the death of the sun

for with its departure

comes the moon’s embrace,

the ghost in us

will never ever fade

devils fall into grace

angels fall like rain




We would hike up on days

where the ocean swelled and

my guitar was in tune, and we would

go through what seemed like endless fields of lavender —

yet to me were an escape into forever.

I remember we would tread on

paths of dirty trails forgotten,

and interlock our fingers —

my spaces there for you,

and your spaces there for me.

And when we’d reach

those two light towers,

I’d watch them roam around

the far horizon untouched within our dreams,

as if watchers watching with great animosity

and euphemisms said over and over;

on the look out for us,

because they knew that they were ours

and we were theirs;

I was his

and he was mine.


there are many things

that I want to say

but I can’t look fear in the face

because fear is you.

this is no testimonial.

this isn’t me asking for your forgiveness.

because if the moon can give up its place within heaven’s glitters

for the sun to touch an ocean suspended in the air,

then I hope you can find your way back to me.

Nothing but the sheets

I just have to get this off my chest

because if I don’t

then —

but if you have mistaken our love

for a memory:

a memory that crumbles your joints and bones in the morning

a memory that you remember when moonlight glides through your indigo sheets


if you have mistaken

the way your thumb rubbed against mine

the way your breath undulated waves of warmth on my cheek

then —

and if we made our brown eyes turn to wood, turn to stone, then —

I wish we lived on glass bottom boats,

so the truth finally comes out of our eyes

and thumbs and sheets —

no barriers between us : nothing but the sheets.

copyright thisgirlchristine, 2014

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