The Girl He Loves
There was a man who I once knew,
for me there was no other.
The closer to loving me he grew,
the more he would grow further.
I tried to love him as his friend,
then to love him as his lover;
but he never loved me in the end—
his heart was for another.
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, Patience, 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.”
Second Chances
The path from you extending,
I could not see its course—
or the closer to you I was getting,
the further from you I’d walked.
For I was moving in a circle,
not a line as I had thought—
the steps I took away from you,
were taking me towards.
Dyslexia
There were letters I wrote you that I gave up sending, long before I stopped writing. I don’t remember their contents, but I can recall with absolute clarity, your name scrawled across the pages. I could never quite contain you to those messy sheets of blue ink. I could not stop you from overtaking everything else.
I wrote your name over and over—on scraps of paper, in books and on the back of my wrists. I carved it like sacred markings into trees and the tops of my thighs. Years went by and the scars have vanished, but the sting has not left me. Sometimes when I read a book, parts will lift from the pages in an anagram of your name. Like a code to remind me it’s not over. Like dyslexia in reverse.
All or Nothing
If you love me
for what you see,
only your eyes would be
in love with me.
If you love me
for what you’ve heard,
then you would love me
for my words.
If you love
my heart and mind,
then you would love me,
for all that I’m.
But if you don’t love
my every flaw,
then you mustn’t love me—
not at 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.
Her Words
Love a girl who writes
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.
Closure
Like time suspended,
a wound unmended—
you and I.
We had no ending,
no said good-bye.
For all my life,
I’ll wonder why.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Al Zuckerman and Writers House for your ongoing guidance and support.
To Kirsty and her team at Andrews McMeel for your passion and dedication.
To Ollie Faudet, the little oracle.
To my family and friends with all my love.
To my readers, words cannot express how much your support means to me.
About the Author
The work of poet and artist Lang Leav swings between the whimsical and woeful, expressing a complexity beneath its childlike facade.
Lang is a recipient of the Qantas Spirit of Youth Award and a prestigious Churchill Fellowship.
Her artwork is exhibited internationally and she was selected to take part in the landmark Playboy Redux show curated by the Andy Warhol Museum.
She currently lives with her partner and collaborator, Michael, in a little house by the sea.
Index
Part I - Here and Now
After the Storm
A Love Story
A Poem
A Writer’s Muse
A Writer’s Plea
Birthdays
Collision
Dear Love
Faith
Happiness
Her
Home
Hope
In Love
In the End
Language
Love
Memories
New Light
Now and Then
Numbers
Pieces of You
Poetry
Revelation
She
Stardust
Stowaway
Sunday Best
The Night
The Rose
The Saddest Thing
The Stranger
Virtual Love
Waiting
Part II - Remember When
A Bad Day
About the Author
Acceptance
Acknowledgments
A Dedication
A Dream
Afraid to Love
After You
All or Nothing
All There Was
Always
Always with Me
Amends
An Artist in Love
Angels
A Question
A Stranger
A Timeline
A Toast!
A Way Out
Beach Ball
Before There Was You
Broken Hearts
Clocks
Closure
Dead Butterflies
Dead Poets
Déjà Vu
Dyslexia
Entwined
Fading Polaroid
First Love
Forget Me Not
For You
He and I
Her Words
&
nbsp; Index
In Two Parts
Jealousy
Letting Him Go
Losing You
Lost and Found
Lost Things
Love Lost
Lullabies
Metamorphosis
More than Love
My Heart
No Other
Nostalgia
Ode to Sorrow
Patience
Pretext
Reasons
Rogue Planets
Sad Songs
Sad Things
Sea of Strangers
Second Chances
Signposts
Some Time Out
Soul Mates
Souls
Soundtracks
Sundays with Michael
Swan Song
That Day
That Night
The End
The Girl He Loves
The Keeper
The Most
The Poet
The Professor
The Seventh Sea
The Things We Hide
The Wanderer
Thoughts
Three Questions
Time
Tsunamis
Us
Wallflower
Wishful Thinking
Wounded
You
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