red stamps

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she left her trademark
wet tannin-red kiss
like a map through the park
citrus wedge lower lip

her kisses a maze
on mugs, cups, and cheeks
puzzle-piecing the days
into ruby-stained weeks

story of summer
she imprinted the town
each kiss like thunder
hot, humbling sound

her breadcrumb trail lay
no storm could hide it
holding out for the day
a kiss cartographer might find it

one who read kisses
just the way that she did
smudged on cold objects
arranged in a grid

a new line for her stamp
curved and warm and sweet
she could set up camp
make a home where lips meet.

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the perfect summer weekend

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You know how New Year’s Eve tends to be a let down? You get dressed up, drag yourself out in the cold, get your hopes up, and end up freezing as the fireworks explode overhead and you count down the minutes until you are at home in bed. July 4th can feel the same way way- the expectations, the promise of a “perfect summer day,” the fireworks- and the inevitable disappointment. Nothing particularly un-fun has happened, but the build up for the big event leaves you feeling underwhelmed when the day comes and passes without a massive surge of extraordinarily good times. Well, this was not that 4th.

It truly was the “perfect summer day.” Followed by yet another pinch-me-perfect day, just when we thought we’d used up all the luck. A long weekend with my best friends in my happy place, complete with morning mimosas, ocean dips, belly laughs, and fiery sunsets. York even gave us a big, winding rainbow on our last night. What more could a girl need? New England Summer, you’ve officially outdone yourself.

the silhouette inside

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she whispered many magic things
to the silhouette inside
dangers of the outside world
like love and lust and pride

she warned her of confusing things
what might happen when we die?
and the strangely ever humbling fact
that elephants can cry

she shared with her the nice things, too
butterflies that flutter by
birds and bees and heeled Hermes
winged creatures who can fly

one lucky golden afternoon
the sun brought her silhouette outside
so they promised honest reverie
seeing eye to outlined-eye.

nostalgia

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Funny, isn’t it? How a place can hold so much meaning in our minds? A smell can make us cry, a crack in the sidewalk can take us back in time. A certain rock shaped like a chair, or a ferris wheel that spins too fast. All brush strokes in this dizzying abstract we paint over the course of our lives.

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Sometimes an entire town can wrap itself around us, weaving in and out of our pasts with a whole myriad of “times.” Good ones, bad ones, insignificant tiffs, overwhelming laughs. The little spot on the rocks where you told someone a big secret, the rocking chair where you said your first goodbye. Even as you watch the waves approach and retreat, though you know they are disappearing, it’s tempting to hang on to their imaginary immortality. Nostalgia likes to perceive perpetuality, even in the bold face of nature, as you stand in awe of her constant change.

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It’s an indulgent pursuit, to seek sources of nostalgia. Despite this awareness of our intentions, nostalgia’s captivating ruse can pull us in. The remarkable ability to find familiarity in something actually quite foreign; to chase a time long past. The human mind plays all kinds of pretty tricks, if you are willing to let go and let her.

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saltwater nymph

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circe can’t go home
oceanid with holographic hair
her formation is terrestrial
every cell hails de la mer

saltwater nymph
imprisoned in her own shell
destined to sway the unwilling
to hold them in her hell

historically avoided
her plea silent like the sea
to be requited is to be understood;
to be understood is to be free

tormented temptress
neither goddess nor goodness, she waits
for the creature who will create her
the only one who holds two fates

circe can’t stay home
her liquid lips must rise
to meet her lightning lover
in the heavy-handed skies

-rainy days in providence inspiring greek mythology poems

to brooklyn and back

A few quick days in the big citaaay.

Musing on getting lost, vulnerability, and finding familiarity in the foreign. There’s something oddly thrilling about being anonymous. Walking through the streets nameless, meeting baristas who do not know your usual, window shopping strange storefronts. Camp and Matisse, ocean eyes and a polka dotted dress, fig gelato and getting caught in the rain. Plans thrown out the window and plants left on the windowsill. Dreams that feel real and real that hums dream.

I came home minus my old phone, but plus a new little gold loop on my finger. Stacked with my precious “amis” ring, my left hand is singing a whole new song, and I’m into it. :)

I also came home with pages of notes and the start of a possible book (!). Now all that’s left to do is write, write, write. And that’s my Saturday night, friends.

soulmates

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Ah. You know those weekends that feel like 4 days rolled into one? The weekends you just want to keep living in? Nothing like an impromptu best friends trip to Boston to make you feel grateful and free.

We drove ourselves up to Boston to witness the ever beautiful Kathleen Breen Combes retire from the stage. With this bittersweet bow comes an exciting new chapter, as Kathleen will become FBP’s Executive Director in the fall! Feeling so excited to have such a powerful role model coming our way, and a wonderful, welcomed addition to the FBP family, of course.

 

And now, some thoughts from the weekend…

There are parts of yourself that you can’t find reflected in the bubbled bottom of a bottle of wine, or the ice chips squeezing final sips of diluted gin. They are not in the wrinkled petals of your favorite flower, nor are they looking up at you from the intricate tiles of a trendy café floor. Don’t look for these bits of you in the mirror- not even a peculiar room with entirely mirrored walls and amber shells- your questions will be as if unheard. Turn instead to your friends. In unrelenting laughter that rolls from your belly and bursts from your lips, in words never spoken but exchanged through subtle movements in brows, in tears caught before they leave your cheeks. In the strange desire to eat, drink, walk, sit, talk, the same things at the same time. Every time. This is where your essence lives, where your spirit rests, where you are truly whole. Soulmates, they come in so many forms.