A Collector’s Item

Her shop was overflowing with trinkets of ordinary appearance. She was an artist and as an artist she saw the beauty and magic of mundane objects in ways that many could not comprehend. For this reason rocks became living documentaries, succulents became isolated universes, and chips of wood became modes of communication.

At first glance, her shop was the embodiment of disarray, but upon closer inspection, it was evident that she had created sections with distinct functions. The northern-most corner – where the books were stacked by height and the walls were covered in an assortment of ever changing colors and lines – was used primarily for the indoctrination of unsuspecting victims. This corner represented her alter-ego: the educated woman who was tearing away at the established ivory tower not so that others could gain access, but rather so that she could demonstrate that chaos was beautiful. The southern-most corner was her least favorite because it represented work and structure. Although she fought this structure by tossing at it every conceivable art form, the glaring light of her monitor and crisp monthly calendar were fierce opponents that could not be vanquished. The east-facing corner was the most guarded section of her shop for it contained the one treasure that she valued above all else: her collection of people.
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Rectify

Does my intent to rectify other’s impressions of you stem from a desire to have them appreciate your flawed beauty, or does it stem from a need to justify why I chose you as my partner?

It’s happened twice. Your name crept into the conversation and with it came the unexpected blow of poorly hidden disdain written across their brows. Their snickers and whispered malice. The roll of their eyes and easy dismissal. They thrive on that. They thrive off of you.

But why?
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Shame

Shame, they say
When I run my fingers
Through your hair.

Shame, they say
When my whisper
Cuts the morning dew.

Shame, they say
When my fleeting eyes
Tease your smirking lips.

Shame, they say
When I give my wanton
Self to you.

Shame, I say
As they hide behind
Their envious tongues.

Shame, I say
As they shirk their
Wistful hearts’ desires.

Shame, we say
As I leave your
Tortured souls behind.

———
“Shame” by Azul Serena

Time and Distance

Time and distance are measured in units of You,
Where distance is marked by my proximity to your touch
while we each live on the wrong side of state lines; and
time is marked by the bittersweet scent of freshly brewed coffee
that reminds me that only minutes before we were detangling ourselves
from the arms, legs, and mouths that had morphed into one during the night.

———
“Time and Distance” by Azul Serena

The Sight of You

I was stunned by the realization that I was thirsty for the sight of you. I’d convinced myself that I could live with fleeting glimpses of your piercing gaze but my parched eyes told me otherwise. So welcomed was the sight of you that I was incapable of speech as I watched you watch me in your quiet, unapologetic way. I knew you knew that it was all too much for me, so you let me take you in one second at a time while your soft lips fought the teasing smile that would surely melt my heart. You didn’t rush me as I studied how your jet black hair framed your heart-shaped face, and how your dove-gray shirt stretched across your back. You waited patiently as I relearned the timbre of your voice when you greeted me with a playful hey. You even held me gently as I savored the well-known sweetness of your breath against my timid lips. You knew then what I know now: You were stunned by the realization that you were thirsty for the sight of me.

———
“The Sight of You” by Azul Serena

I’m Ready

I’m ready to get lost in the profundity of your love,
Submerge myself in the infinite depths of your limpid eyes,
Tangle my limbs in the sinewy lengths of your touch,
And walk the recessed labyrinth of your thoughts.
I’m ready to get lost in the profundity of your love;
Are you ready to get lost in mine?

———
“I’m Ready” by Azul Serena