2am.

This is just a rambling mess.
A jumble of thoughts and consciousness
So please forgive me if I make no sense
Or all the sense in the world
But I just need to talk tonight

Friend of mine, there are things I need to do
Have you ever felt that way?
There is this itching under my skin
This need to do something in the world
To leave fingerprints, memories, ink smudges
To make a difference

You know, I don't know what I'm supposed to do
Who to be, what to say, where to go
But I do know the fire-dipped shades of sunset skies
The deep pink of wind-bitten cheeks
The silver of child-laughter eyes
And the lavender of wishes on stars.
I know the grey of tears down cheeks,
The black of empty arms in empty beds
And I know the green of new, fresh,
starting over, and over, and over again.
This world is a rainbow that always seems
to keep showing up after every storm.
Dew drop on a blade of grass, sud in a sink.
And I'm thankful.

I want to take my frayed edges
My messy hair and uneven eyeliner
I want to take my hoodies and jeans with the torn holes
And take my chipped fingernails and my too-long toes curled in nervous anticipation
And I want to offer them to you.
It isn't much.
It's pennies and broken shells and maybe
even shards from broken hearts
But it's what I am and it's what I have
And I want to give it to you.
I want to offer up these fragments,
These seemingly broken things

Because without the colored pieces mosaics cannot exist.

Friend, I want to leave a piece of me here.
Maybe with you, maybe with petals in the wind
Maybe even on the glint off a feather of a
bird high in the tree tops
Because that's where you'll find me.
You'll find me here, then there, always
Always floating through the world, breathing deep the colors of now, now, now

You'll find me in the words I leave on this paper piece.
Because I am a writer.
This my greatest dream, you see
And it may not always work
And the sentences may not make
And sometimes I Capitalize The Wrong Letters
And... Well... I pause, rather, frequently
And I say the same things over and over
And I repeat myself
And I don't make sense.
My hands are covered in ink and eraser smudges,
Coffee and tear stains.
And still the words don't flow.
The heart is lopsided but beating
And this is the greatest thing I have.
This is what I am.

I am words. A big long string, unending,
Unbroken.
Word after word connected and placed
So that you can know my name.
So that when you hold up your thumb to the sky
You can count four over, three across
You can see my star.
The one that grants wishes and hope
The silver in the black.
This so that you taste the sweet of sunshine and fresh cotton sheets.
The honeysuckle in late June dusk.
Maybe this is my fingerprint.
Maybe my memory.
These my words.
The words I leave here, on this page,
covered in the hue of windowsill cracks
This hour that blurs the lines of the page
The too-late and too-early belonging to days gone and to be
The smell of coffee and toothpaste and chocolate chip cookie.
These words, messy, chopped, scribbled, whispered, placed.
They rest in the outstretched palm
The fingers extended,
Dirty fingernails and all.

Here.
For you.
Love,
Sarah