Lullabies

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  For Michael

  I love you, I do—

  you have my word.

  You have all

  my words.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Duet

  Chapter 2

  Interlude

  Chapter 3

  Finale

  Encore

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Index

  Introduction

  “A mind possessed by unmade books.”

  This line, taken from the poem Lost Words by Michael Faudet, illustrates my lifelong preoccupation with books. All artists have a motive, a passion that wills them to create the things they do. For me, it has always been about books. It always will be.

  It was from a very young age that I fell in love with this wonderful artifact—the turn of the first page is almost like a sacred ritual to me. Whenever I walk into a library, it is never without some degree of reverence.

  Over time, my love of books spilled beyond the joy of reading and I began to dream of books filled with my own words and pictures.

  This dream turned to reality with the publication of my first book, Love & Misadventure, and continues now with the follow-up, Lullabies, the very book you are holding in your hands.

  I have always thought poems were a little like spells—incantations that are as old as time. There is a certain quality to words that—when strung in a certain way—has an almost hypnotic effect. This combined with the universal theme of love, becomes ever more potent and intoxicating. After all, what greater magic is there than love?

  I hope you enjoy reading Lullabies as much as I enjoyed putting it together. I imagine it to be a bedside table kind of book—hopefully, one that you will pick up on some windy, restless night and it will help sing you to sleep.

  Though it has a start, middle, and end, you can begin reading Lullabies from any page you wish. Some pieces will sing to your present, others may echo of your past, and the rest could whisper of your future. Remember, while the words on these pages remain static, this book—like all other books—is a living and breathing thing. Much like a mirror reflecting its ever-changing landscape, Lullabies is a book that, over time, will reveal itself to you slowly.

  Much Love,

  Lang

  Lost Words

  A midnight scribble,

  a morning sigh;

  you watch the words

  curl up and die.

  Madness lives

  inside your head,

  of poems lost

  and pages dead.

  A mind possessed

  by unmade books,

  unwritten lines

  on empty hooks.

  —Michael Faudet

  Chapter 1

  Duet

  In books unread,

  we lie between

  their pages.

  As they turn us to lovers

  like season’s changes.

  —EXCERPT

  Her Words

  Love a girl who writes

  and live her many lives;

  you have yet to find her,

  beneath her words of guise.

  Kiss her blue-inked fingers,

  forgive the pens they marked.

  The stain of your lips upon her—

  the one she can’t discard.

  Forget her tattered memories,

  or the pages others took;

  you are her ever after—

  the hero of her book.

  My Heart

  Perhaps I never loved enough,

  If only I’d loved much more;

  I would not nearly had so much,

  left waiting, for you in store.

  If I had given away my heart—

  to those who came before;

  it would be safer left in parts—

  but now you have it all.

  Metamorphosis

  I am somebody else’s story. The girl who served their drink, the person they pushed past on a crowded street, the one who broke their heart. I have happened in so many places, to so many people—the essence of me lives on in these nuances, these moments.

  Yet never have I been bolder or brighter than I am with you. Not once have I ever felt so alive. Whatever vessel we pour ourselves into, mine is now overflowing, brimming with life. It is transcending into something new.

  Hands are no longer hands. They are caresses. Mouths are no longer mouths. They are kisses. My name is no longer a name, it is a call. And love is no longer love—love is you.

  When

  When every dream

  has turned to dust,

  and your highest hopes

  no longer soar.

  When places you

  once yearned to see,

  grow further away

  on distant shores.

  When every night

  you close your eyes,

  and long inside

  for something more.

  Remember this

  and only this,

  if nothing else

  you can recall—

  There was a life

  a girl once led,

  where you were loved

  the most of all.

  Tsunamis

  Be careful about giving your heart too quickly, I was told.

  Boys only have one thing on their minds, they cautioned.

  I don’t know if he truly loves me—how can I be sure? I can’t say with any conviction that he won’t break my heart—but how could I have stopped him from taking what was already his?

  He swept in like a tsunami, wave after wave, and I didn’t stand a chance. All those warnings, all the things they tried to prepare me for—lost in an instant—to the enormity of what I felt.

  Thoughts of You

  There were times when I was with him and it was too much. Does that make sense? When someone stirs a world of emotion in you and it’s so intense you can barely stand to be with him.

  During those moments, I wanted so desperately to leave—to go home, walk into my bedroom, and shut the door behind me. Crawl into bed and lay there in the dark, tracing the outline of my lips with my fingers—replaying everything he said, everything we did. I wanted to be left alone—with nothing other than my thoughts of him.

  He’s Leaving

  My nine

  is your noon;

  I’m just packing now—

  your winter,

  my June.

  wish I could pack you.

  Patience

  Patience and Love agreed to meet at a set time and place; beneath the twenty-third tree in the olive orchard. Patience arrived promptly and waited. She checked her watch every so often but still, there was no sign of Love.

  Was it the twenty-third tree or the fifty-sixth? She wondered and decided to check, just in case. As she made her way over to the fifty-sixth tree, Love arrived at twenty-three, where Patience was noticeably absent.

  Love waited and waited before deciding he must have the wrong tree and perhaps it was another where they were supposed to meet.

  Meanwhile, Patience had arrived at the fifty-sixth tree, where Love was still nowhere to be seen.

  Both begin to drift aimlessly around the olive orchard, almost meeting but never do.

  Finally, Patien
ce, who was feeling lost and resigned, found herself beneath the same tree where she began. She stood there for barely a minute when there was a tap on her shoulder.

  It was Love.

  ..................................

  “Where are you?” She asked. “I have been searching all my life.”

  “Stop looking for me,” Love replied, “and I will find you.”

  Passing Time

  I feel the end is drawing near,

  would time be so kind to slow?

  You are everything to me, my dear,

  you are all I really know.

  But as I sit and wait and fear

  and watch the hours go—

  Everything that happened here

  happened long ago.

  No Other

  There is someone I keep in my heart—I love him and no one else. It is a love that will only die with me.

  You may ask, death could be some time away—what if from now to then, you love someone new?

  Well I can tell you, there is only one love. If any person claims to have loved twice in all their life—they have not loved at all.

  Well Wishes

  My love, are you well,

  past the sea and the swell,

  out in the world, where danger is fraught.

  Amidst the doom and the gloom,

  and the hospital rooms,

  where hearts can be bartered and bought.

  There are words to betray

  and the things that we say,

  can sometimes be snappy and short.

  Where the strangers we meet,

  take us down one way streets,

  and forgetting is something we’re taught.

  Where earthquakes will reign,

  between terror and planes—

  and colds are so easily caught.

  Sad Things

  Why do you write sad things? he asked. When I am here, when I love you.

  Because someday, in one way or another, you will be taken from me or I you. It is inevitable. But please understand; from the moment I met you, I stopped writing for the past. I no longer write for the present. When I write sad things, I am writing for the future.

  A Pilgrimage

  Always seeking,

  each moment fleeting;

  this is where

  my soul will rest.

  With you I’ve fulfilled,

  our destined meeting;

  my tired hand,

  against your chest.

  This is the heart,

  that keeps mine beating—

  these are the eyes

  that mine know best.

  Loving You

  I saw him the other day. His arms around another girl, his eyes when met with mine—were slow in their recognition.

  I wonder if he remembers what I once told him.

  I will love you forever.

  He had smiled at me sadly before giving his reply.

  But I am so afraid you may one day stop.

  Now all these years later, I am the one who is afraid. Because I love him, I still do. I haven’t stopped. I don’t think I can. I don’t think I ever will.

  And/Or

  I once wrote a book and called it And/Or. It was about choosing between either, or having the option of both.

  I’m not sure why I wrote it. Perhaps it had something to do with how I looked at life. My lack of care. My indecision. I wanted everything because I didn’t want anything enough.

  Then I met you and it changed me. For once in my life, there was something I wanted. So much.

  For me, that was the death of the word, or; because now, there is no other. It was the end of the word, and; for I love only you.

  Devotion

  He is more to me

  than I.

  I love him more

  than I can bear.

  So much at times

  I wish to die,

  so I can end this

  on a high.

  His Kiss

  He has me at his every whim;

  everything starts with him.

  To all the boys I used to kiss—

  everything stops with his.

  Us

  I love him and he loves me.

  We spend every moment together. When sleep parts us, we often meet in our dreams.

  I like to take naps throughout the day. Like a cat, he says. He is a cat person.

  He thinks my eyes are beautiful and strange. He has never seen eyes like mine up close before.

  He says they look at him with daggers when he has done something wrong. Like when he forgets to order olives on my half of the pizza.

  He thinks I am especially cute when angry.

  We argue over whose turn it is to put the DVD in the player. Sometimes no one wins and we end up watching bad TV. Which is never really a bad thing.

  He never imagined he would be with someone like me.

  Now, he says, he can’t imagine himself with anyone else.

  ..................................

  We’re kids, aren’t we?

  Yes, kids with grown-up powers.

  Signposts

  What if certain people were signposts in your life? Representations of good or bad. Like an old friend you see across a crowded street, one you wave hello to, before hurrying on. The last time you saw them, things took a turn for the worse and, as sad as it may seem, they have unwittingly become an omen—a precursor of bad luck.

  Or that one person whom you rarely speak with, who can always be found right where you left them. You carry their smile with you like a talisman—for whatever reason, their presence in your life will always bring the promise of better days.

  Then there is the boy you can never stop thinking about. Whenever you see his name, it trips you up. Even if it’s one that belongs to many others, even if he belongs to someone else.

  You know he is a symbol of your weakness, your Kryptonite. How he rushes in like wildfire and burns through everything you worked so hard to build since he last left you in ashes.

  So you do the only thing you know how—you put as many miles as you can between him. As many roadblocks and traffic lights as you can gather. Then you build a bold red stop sign right on your doorstep, knowing all the stop signs in the world could never hold him—they can only ask him to stay awhile.

  Mementos

  You were none,

  and now you’re all;

  your worth will rise,

  the more I fall.

  Like these mementos

  we have stored,

  once were things—

  now so much more.

  Keys

  Hearts don’t have locks, she said.

  Some do, he replies. There are people who give away the key to theirs for safekeeping. Others are mistrustful and give out several keys, just in case. Then there are those who have misplaced them but never cared to look.

  What about your heart, she asked.

  He smiled.

  Your words are the key to mine, he replied.

  Never forget your words.

  Déjà Vu

  I saw it once,

  I have no doubt;

  but now can’t place

  its whereabouts.

  I try to think it,

  time and time;

  but what it is,

  won’t come to mind.

  A word, a scent—

  a feeling, past.

  It will not show,

  though much I’ve asked.

  And when it comes,

  I soon forget—

  this is how it felt,

  when we first met.

  Cloc
ks

  Here in time,

  you are mine;

  my heart has not

  sung louder.

  I do not know

  why I love you so—

  the clock knows not

  its hour.

  Yet it is clear,

  to all that’s here,

  that time is told

  by seeing.

  Even though

  clocks do not know,

  it is the reason

  for their being.

  Lullabies

  I barely know you, she says, voice heavy with sleep. I don’t know your favorite color or how you like your coffee. What keeps you up at night or the lullabies that sing you to sleep. I don’t know a thing about the first girl you loved, why you stopped loving her or why you still do.

  I don’t know how many millions of cells you are made of and if they have any idea they are part of something so beautiful and unimaginably perfect.

  I may not have a clue about any of these things, but this—she places her hand on his chest—this I know.

  Message in a Bottle