poetry, Scribbles

Love is like art

Love is like art


Love is like art. 

Pictures of unexplainable emotions swirling together to create colors that have no name because they have never been seen before. 

Sometimes there are many failed attempts before the masterpiece is created. A masterpiece that utters strange and wonderful words to each soul who looks upon it. 

Sculptures of moments frozen in time. Images of memories that still play through the mind. All of these are attempts at depicting what each heart longs for. 

Sometimes love is beautiful, emotional, and patient, with tiny phrases and looks that make the heart run madly. 

Sometimes love is dark and twisted with madness, when excitement blends with fear to form wild imaginations. 

But all art has in common the passion of the artist. 

And it is this passion that we crave. 

Love is like art. 

No two are alike. 

But who could depict love with mere colors and images? Who could depict all of the souls and dreams of mankind on a canvas? 

Love is not art. Love is like art. 

Though men try to depict love, their love may not be seen as art at all to another. 

But to that man, 

His love is a masterpiece. 


Photo by brooklyn 

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Scribbles

Constellations

Constellations


I glanced across Joe and Sam, over to her window where I could see she was tracing constellations with her finger. She said the names so quietly that they emerged as a little more than a breath.  

“Hannah,” I whispered.  

Her face turned to me, eyes round and mouth partially open. I’d caught her by surprise. 

“What do you see? I only have a view of trees from my side.”  

She smiled and took off her bulky, dark rimmed, unfashionable glasses to point to them. I didn’t get the clue.  

“What?” I whispered. Joe stirred and mad a quiet snoring sound.   

What? I mouthed again.  

Her parents had put Sam and Joe between us because we’d been bickering over who got the window seat overlooking the ocean. Of course Hannah got it, and I’d rather be next to her than at “the other window seat” which was apparently just as good. Instead, her brothers got stuffed between us, because Joe refused to move unless Sam came with him, all because Rachel, the oldest, didn’t want to sit next to us. She had a seat to herself. So, I was stuck next to Joe who I “bickered with” way more than Hannah. Oh well.   

Hannah rolled her eyes but continued smiling and put her glasses back on.  

“I saw glasses,” she whispered.  

“No constellations?”  

“Yes, a constellation. Just because Socrates or whoever didn’t draw it in his map of stars doesn’t mean it’s not up there. They didn’t have glasses back then to even know what a constellation of glasses would look like.”  

“Do they look like your glasses?”  

“No, they’re way uglier than mine.”  

I laughed. Joe growled under his breath and elbowed me.  


Photo by Jeremy Thomas on Unsplash

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poetry

Where are you, Love?

Where are you, Love?


Red as the summer rose, 
My heart bleeds 
Crimson petals in the snow. 

As a cut flower in the heat, 
My soul pants 
For desert streams. 

As fragile leaves downward sent, 
My spirit quakes 
Against the wind. 

Where are you, Love? 

Vast as the starry sky, 
Love transcends 
Above the beacons in the night. 

As the deepest depths in the sea, 
Love conceals 
Every dark and strange mystery. 

As the heat of summer sun descends, 
Love is felt 
Warming hearts, minds, and limbs. 

Where are you, Love? 

Paper blackened by the ink, 
Love’s letters and words 
Choke out pride and deceit. 

Downcast eyes and lowered head, 
Love hears 
Words not understood or said. 

Brothers and sisters gathered round, 
Love is present 
With every heart, mind, and hand bound. 

Where are you, Love? 

As a steady beating drum, 
My heart’s door hears 
The melodious thumps. 

As a match suddenly lit, 
My heart ignites 
With emotions far too powerful to comprehend. 

As morning dew on a fragile rose, 
My heart settles 
Never again to be alone. 

There you are, Love. 


Photo by Jamie Street

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Scribbles

Star Girl

Star Girl


They call her star girl. I call her Emmeryn. She’s my little sister, and a connector between this world and another. A magic world. 

“Have you ever met Titania, Edward?” 

“Have I ever… who?” 

Emmeryn giggled.  

“She wants me to come live with her,” she whispered. 

“Titania? As in Shakespeare’s Titania?” 

“Shakespeare was like me. They told me so.” 

Before I could ask her who, she ran away. Skipping. Tiny sparkles of light falling out of her dark hair. It reminded me of constellations. 

I took Emmeryn to the park. It’s usually very quiet despite only being a few miles outside of London. That’s good, because my sister is odd.  

I used to try and stop her from gazing at nothing with round eyes and hands carefully folding to capture the empty air in a gentle cage. But it was no use. Then she would whisper something, and her hair would start to leak stars. 

The old lady and I watched. 

“How can you be so ordinary when your sister is such a little star girl?” 

She meant no harm. I smiled as she laughed. The old lady then told me about her deceased husband, about him being buried at the church three miles down the road, about her children who are always busy.  

And I would listen, keeping one eye on the dancing Emmeryn. 

“Aren’t they pretty?” She would ask on the way home. 

“What?” 

“The ariels.” 

“Yes.”  

Then she would laugh and twirl. 

I would have figured that a child with such a spirit, with enough passion that light escapes her eyes and her hair, would be very strong, but Emmeryn has always been weak. Her body always feels feverish like the fire inside was burning everything else up. When she turned seven, she began sleeping two days at a time. 

“Like your mother,” the doctor said, touching the forehead of the child. Then he looked at his hand, twinkling with stardust. “And I thought she was young when they took her.” 

“But Emmeryn is only seven.” 

“I know… Ah, so strange. It won’t be long before she sheds this mortal shell.” 

“You mean she dies.” 

He took my shoulder and looked back and forth between my eyes, like he was searching for the reason why I was normal, why was human. 

“Do things really die? Or do they become something different?” he asked. 

“They die.”  

I sat down and watched my sister. I could feel the doctor watching the back of my head for a little while, then the air changed. It blew in and around the little room, stirring up the stars in Emmeryn’s hair. I resisted the urge to turn around until the wind stopped. When I did, the doctor was gone. 

A star creature, a human with a touch of fae. Not a sorcerer who could mix science and magic, or a mage who could harness the magic of other creatures. But a star person, someone who created magic inside of them, a fairy kind of magic, beloved by all the fae, hunted by magic-seekers, short-lived because their human body could not hold up to the strain of their magic spirit. 

When Emmeryn died, she would turn to star dust. Her spirit would be carried to another world, and I would never see her again. Because I did not even possess the Sight. 

But, it would almost come as a relief. I’ve looked after Emmeryn since she was born. I never knew my father, and I never knew hers. And our mother – or the woman who claimed to be my mother as well – disappeared when Emmeryn was born. Turned to dust. And I, a ten-year-old kid, spent my life from that time forward looking after Emmeryn. When Emmeryn was gone, I would have my own life. 

Did that make me a bad person? 

I ran my fingers through Emmeryn’s hair then stared at the tiny stars. They faded into my skin. 

I whispered her name several times, then brushed her hair. Then watched these stars disappear. It was no use. She was somewhere else. I laid my head down and closed my eyes. 

When I woke up, she was gone. 


Photo by Annie Spratt

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