Last night I had a conversation with the restless dark of June
about the color of souls, and how they fade, how they bleed.
They are mood rings inside our bodies,
changing the color of our cores to the beat and hum
of their own seasons.
In the birth of spring, they are tentative and curious,
blooming in small bursts of pinks and yellows,
learning to be with the same clumsiness
of a deer learning to stand
In the heart of summer, they are sticky sweet, bright
like Chinese lanterns. They leak out into the night like ink from jars,
seeping into the beings they long to touch, be touched by.
In the cooling fall, they fade
like denim washed too many times. They no longer
bleed rivers, slipping in beneath another’s skin like air,
instead they hold their oceans close for fear of winter storms
In the darkness of winter, they freeze
becoming swirling indigos and blacks. They notice
foreign streams of other colors, spindling webs
of other souls left behind from the summer months
See, this is how we love
the rivers of our beings flooding those we hold close,
our colors merging with theirs
See, this is how we are loved
their souls leaving trickles of pigments behind-
an amount small enough to fade, but large enough
to been seen as we wring ourselves out
again and again.
You’ll get to an age where all you can think about is having your shaking body clasped beneath someone else’s and however many years of longing will leak out of your hands until you’re trying to hold yourself together with the hope that maybe someday you’re going to be wanted with a fire that burns out entire forests.
All I can tell you is that you should hold out for that hope, one day you’re going to be touched with so much intention you’ll forget any other time someone held your hand." — Azra. T, teenage blues (via tomorrowed)