The Gift

It was the most personal gift I had ever given. I needed to present it finely.

So I went to the Amazon Rainforest and veiled it with a Misty Rainbow. I then travelled to Ancient Florence and hammered around it Leaves of Gold. Then I went to Heaven and swirling my hand, clustered Silver Stars for sticking and Empyrean Diamond Dust for sprinkling. After that, I borrowed a Fiery Scarlet Feather from a Phoenix and dipped it in all of the lights of Christmas in New York City and Paris.

It was the most beautiful gift I had ever wrapped.

With all of my spirit, I handed him the Sparkling Crystalline unparalleled package.

"Thanks, but I already have one," he said, handing it back.

There was nothing to be done. I couldn't return it and it was useless to me, already plucked from my chest, now bleeding through the box. I tried putting it back, but it never felt the same.

Years later, I gave it again, or a close replica. It was wrapped in rainbow paper, with a gold bow, glittering diamonds and a red feather. Luckily he was so impressed by the veneer he didn't have the heart to open it.

So there it sat, my grand bluff, an empty box.

The Ornament

It was one ornament. Nothing sentimental- a quite commercial one. Common. A character from the classic Rudolph cartoon who sang when you pressed his hand. It probably came from some last minute shopping trip at a CVS. Nothing to pass down or anything of the sort.

She had carefully not opened certain boxes. The sentiment of her Christmas tree at home, with its childhood accumulations, was so different than this version of her very own Christmas. The one they once created together. Built their own new memories.

Now, with certain boxes sealed and one fine single gal's indulgence- a 7 foot high Hot Pink Tree with Charcoal Branches- she began her own traditions. Rainbow Lights instead of the traditional Berry Red and Icicle White; simple cat-proof Glittered Ornaments in a panoply of colors- Tangerine, Coffee, Peacock, Lipstick, Olive, Platinum, Crown.

Out of curiosity, perhaps to test the battery only, she pressed the hand. The ornament danced and sang. Her new kitten came over, as her old cat once did.

And just like that, the icicles that fell from her eyes.

We had magic, didn't we?

This was the life they should be living, always...

They whipped through invigorating sprays of salt and bolts of wind in the morning Washed Denim sky, themselves streaks of White Baby Corn Blonde and Candy Apple Brunette. This was their last Blueberry morning together on the island and they were ferry bound to make the most of it.

The near empty boat docked and rocked against the coast as the two windswept sisters debarked. There was a world to explore; a Jurassic Park of jellyfish and sand crabs.

Tall wisps of beach grass blew east- natural arrows pointing toward a narrow boardwalk. They followed the cerused serpentine path over hill and dune, deep into a forest that seemed to duplicate itself with every Olivine unveiling. In a fairytale, bread crumbs could've given them a reverse option but the path continued to split and force fast venturesome decisions. Forward motion brought them to breathtaking rays of Sable Glittered Sand.

They ran as fast as they could to the Twinkling Turquoise Tide. There before them was galaxy of Vanilla Clam Shells- a sea of Sparkling Brides before them. Running endlessly picking them up they made haphazard stacks against their chests. Before Beauty could fully set in, thusly came the Beast. From nowhere- a fiercely shaken Etch-a-Sketch, a Coal Blackboard spread cross the sky broken by White Chalk zips of lightening. Two girls gathered the last of the shells and ran between Diamond Teardrops of Rain on wet Pancake Batter sand.

They ran to the dock but had not made it in time for the ferry which stoutly sped away toward the other coast under Ashen watch.

What luck! An ice cream stand!

Under cover of Red Seersucker awning they sat listening to the pitter patter of iced summer rain, enjoying icy scoops of Pistachio and Cookie Dough, waiting for the storm to pass and the boat return.

Summer is an Eternal Pearlescent Childhood,

A Treasury of Shells,

and all in the details.

Golden Butterfly

She needed some magic the most now. There she was; a New Yorker in this unfamiliar state she had dustily dismissed years ago as 'Middle America'. The isolation and emptiness of the farmscape heartily mocked her current mental and emotional muddle. Thank goodness it was the last day there- sitting across the table from her one time, all times, future time past and present ex.

The one who once gave her butterflies that now felt like sparrows.

It had been a week of neither here-nor-there, of watching the pale and muted Rusty Red Sun dive down into the cracked ground from her hotel window alone. He in his own.

Yes, she needed that magic now- just a sign.

They made it JUST in time to Atlanta- and by just in time, the bare skin of your carry-on, time enough to become a track star and make it sweating to your gate- with our without wearing the original shoes you modeled on Plane One.

They were separated there, like the parting of book from spine; of yours from mine. The week had ended, no Golden clarity, more Greysome clouds.

"I need to get on this plane," she tried on a lark at the gate. It was his plane. A surprisingly helpful ticket clerk click clacked and printed a boarding pass. And a full plane left only one open seat.

Eyes locked. Brown eyes that had always known each other anciently, full of ancient pain. The flight was long, pretty wordless.

"I almost forgot," reaching into his pocket as they touched down, "I found this on the tram to the gate... Here."

He handed her a Golden Filigreed Butterfly.

She had her sign. The tears ran down her face. He could never truly understand its significance- that her Papoo promised to watch over her in butterfly-form, that she prayed to find a gold charm to remind her to always believe in her dreams, that she lived and died a little on the hope of their love rekindled- no he could only see Opalescent tears.

Their love grew from that day, Gilded, Golden, Free as a Filigreed Wing and Prayer.

And though they did not make it to the end, he gave her butterflies once again.

"Stand in front of that sign, it looks like you," she said changing the settings on her camera to night, soft flash.

The girl took a fun pose in front of the green sign with the rainbow stars. It was some sort of ad for a bakery, or at least that's what her French told her.

It was so much colder than she had planned and her woolen green pea coat and knit rainbow striped gloves was barely enough to hold the heat of her body. Chocolat Chaud was in order.

She was probably the most colorful thing in Paris; everyone in their chic winter grey or black. She was a peacock with her feathers splayed, shimmering in the City of Lights. And now it started snowing.

Flash. Pose. Flash. Smile. Laughing. They ran underground to the safety of the Metro, covered in powdered sugar.

The snow melted from her hair, the coldness of that winter thawed, her life changed, her boyfriends changed, her desire for hot chocolate lessened...

But that picture remained; forever reminding her of how she believed in love that could light the sky, her boundaryless dreams, and the way the stars of another city made her beautiful.

I am a flower

I am a beautiful flower in this world.

If you pick me, keep me in water, or I'll die

Sing to me sweetly, or I'll die

Plant me in the ground and I might live forever.

Let me keep my roots

Feed me, Nourish me

Give me the Earth, Give me the Sky

Give me the Water and the Wind

And I just might turn into a tree

And if you are lucky,

with fecundity and fair fortune

This tree might bear your seed

And you might live forever too.

A girl who glows dazzling can become captivated by her own shadow; so fascinated she might fall in.

A shadow, heavy weighted, waiting on the floor, might become moonstruck with his lovely lamp.

He who does not value words; who wastes wondrous words, crumples pretty papers and slays sentences of beauty which were woven with devotion- Words of Love- which sweetly and eloquently pave the way to heaven- is surely headed towards the darkness.

She who screws in lightbulbs, plants seeds, writes love letters, and paints rainbows is surely headed towards the light.

He who smashes lightbulbs, but plants seeds, lets me briefly paint my rainbow then burns my brush...

The dark and the light make grey.

Grey can sparkle prismatically, create clouds of gunmetal, live on classically, calm, static.

Glitter with passion and the eternal struggle between black and white,

Shine as a diamond in the rough perhaps rough even on my finger

but,

Grey is not love.

He told me he was through, wanted nothing. I had burned a bridge that could not be repaired. His heart had no intentions for mine, only his body.

“I love you. Look at me… I love you. I mean, did you read my letter?”

“No.”

“n no?”

Coldly, “I don’t need to hear how you feel again about me. I mean, it’s like…I love watching Family Guy. But you can only see so many of the reruns over and over again until you get bored.”

Silence. Thought. The faint sound of my heart finally breaking, not a shattering sound, just the last thread holding it together unraveling, falling softly to the floor. He just likened hearing my ‘I Love You’ to tiring of reruns of Family Guy.

Tears. Understanding. I always knew I deserved better than this. This was a death of my heart, of my love and a rebirth. A baby is born- this new version of me without him.

I burned his bridge that day. He can never return to my island.

No one knew I was here. The elevator brought me to the 19th floor. My penchant for the number 9 told me this would be somewhat magical, lucky at least.

"Right this way ma'am," he motioned with his white linen sleeved arm.

I turned the industrial-style latch and opened the door to light, flooding light, as in a cliche from a dark hallway.

I listened to the elegant sound of my heels on the concrete- the sound felt elegant now as I made my way towards the window, which was the entire length of the place. At this height, who needed privacy? Perhaps from Spiderman? But he probably couldn't afford these prices.

"This is new construction and we are still in the process of finishing the kitchen in this one so please excuse the slight disarray," who would care, I thought. Who could notice the dusty footprint with the entire city sprawled out in front of me, like a time line, in a three quarter view ending on the water.

I would have this one day. No one knew I was here. Not even my man.

I stalled, asked questions I half knew the answers to, anything to buy myself more time in this high-rise paradise so that I could begin to see the hot ball Miami sun stain the edges of metal sky scrapers Blood Orange, watch the sky turn Pink, picture myself in my clear Louis Ghost chair, wearing nothing but my Pink Glitter Louboutins, waving hello to Spidy as he started his evening shift. But of course, this was in my head. And no one knew I really lived here.

Half Hearted Disagreement

"You have to be okay on your own, I know I am," he said, taking another bite of his maple soaked stack of pancakes, chewing as if the conversation was over.

"Yeah, but...I'm not so sure people are 'okay' alone. I mean, perhaps 'okay' is all they are, perhaps nothing higher than that."

"No, in order to be good in a relationship, you need to be completely and utterly okay with being alone. You have to be totally happy alone."

"Yeah, but I'm not happy when I'm alone. I don't think I want to be. I think I'm my best self as part of a couple."

"That's ridiculous!" he lowered his eyes into his coffee cup as he took a huge gulp, "You have to be complete on your own to be complete in a relationship."

"Do you?" she asked, truly wondering.

"Yes."

Perhaps he was right, but she always had a sinking suspicion that hearts were really the shape of only half a heart and it took two to make a heart complete.

How We Fall In Love...

"Are your eyes honey or amber colored?"

"What?"

"Your eyes. Would you say they're more honey or amber? They're not brown, you know."

Interesting...I've always known that, but no other guy had ever noticed, or taken the time to really look past the brown. The Amber of my eyes and skin which almost was my name. They're actually Cherry Umber with sparks of Green at the iris, eyes which darken with emotion to Rich Chocolate. Never thought his large, large blue eyes would see that much.

This wasn't in the plan. Why did this seem the only detail that now mattered? I started shutting the eyes of my past. He was right and he was now. Perhaps Mr. Right Now for now?

Actually, they weren't truly blue; they were Ice Green with Clouds of Grey that shone like Miami waters right after the sunset when the Neon Blush of the pre-dusk sky makes the sea glow Smoky Luminous Turquoise.

I mean, they're blue.

Love Out Loud

My HEART has the mic. It speaks freely. I am a woman. I will never be a victim of the unsaid, the unexpressed, the unsettled. You will know your place in my world and my graciousness for your presence. You will know exactly how you've touched my day, my week, my life.

I love you.

Out Loud.

From my heart and its mic.

Beating loudly, Beating pure

Yours Truly

"I just don't want to see you get hurt," he said.

"Hurt?" I thought, but actually said aloud. What part of this story felt vulnerable? I felt pretty good about my mastery of the situation. I felt I had it under control.

"I mean, you're fragile..." his words stopped me dead in my trains of thought.

"Fragile...Fragile?" Very quickly I also thought/said as if rolling the word in my hand like a ball, exploring its density and coolness.

"I'm not fragile," I defended.

"Yes...you are. I see it in your eyes."

And just like that he had me. He saw me, much younger, much more innocent. And I was forced to see me too.

A girl feels fragile and perfect and pretty when she first discovers love; love hidden under the slate grey rocks of adolescence- love that flares out- a burst of light into dark space.

A girl is a delicate bone china teacup, a tasse of fine-fired glass until the first break. She is never the same. The handle needs to be re-glued (and to necessitate the mar of glue at all!), it doesn't exactly sit the way it did before in the saucer, somehow it seems a little more accident prone. So she builds and thickens. Perhaps becoming a mug. Perhaps a thick and plated stein. She must protect herself from more breakage so she one day discovers she is made of platinum. Safe, Strong, Secure...but no longer fragile.

After much thought, much silence, many watercolored memories flushing out the words,

"I don't remember the last time I felt fragile..."

And like Bella after Edward, I was never the same. I knew my task at once, my optimistic regression to become that fragile, that pure, once again.

To replace platinum with porcelain. And to sit on a saucer that will hold me tight against the threat of shattering.

The Morning "Do"

Aqua Sequin Gown...check, Peacock Black and White Diamond Headpiece...check, Faux Ermine Stole (I have a white cat you know)...check. All is set to go. Driver, take me there, as I ascend the carriage, royally sparkling. Along the not-long drive, I watch the coral roses, which were strewn, vanish. My songbird, Mario, chirps tunefully and the appointed jester, Steve Harvey, tells jokes which make me smile. Torches of red fire are held to my cart and my driver halts. We wait, speak of the weather, the verdant starry sky. Torches of green fire send us forward, sky rushing past. I have arrived in luxury. A queen gets dropped off at work. Nothing is more befitting.

Hello Loves!

Somtimes, you just have to sit on the table, look around at your place, and take it all in...Perhaps wearing a rainbow spray of beads. Do you shine brightly in your surroundings? If someone were to break in, would they know it was your home?
"Jackpot, Raina's apartment...fabulous!" stated the cat-burglar, last seen running down the streets of Miami in multi-glitter 4 inch hidden platform pumps and champagne pearls.