Thirty-three! My magic number! This poem shall not be sad. I shall not write about anguish or fear or anger. To strangers I must seem to be so scared, so melancholic, but truly, I am not. Perhaps I pour all my pain into poetry. Perhaps that is my excuse. So, here, I shall try to write about hope and love and magic. Because this is the other half of my life. This is the everyday of my life, not the thoughts I spew into the night, time after time. I can be a smile too.
She is wine in the afternoon.
Poems of hope scrawled on napkins.
She is two-dimensional promises
that origami into compassion.
She is tokens of love, hidden
in middle fingers.
She is tequila! Surprise!
And last-minute tickets home
just to make sure you’re alright.
She is chai tea lattes
and bottomless ears.
And every one of them is a bandaid,
a pillow of trust, a fountain of faith.
She is the beacon in the night that reminds me:
And if she does, how can I not?