The moon. The sun and all cosmic joyrides. Swallows in flight, don’t leave me. Dust motes swirling in beams of sun rays. Keep me safe. The smell of cold rain hitting the scorched earth. The heavy, salty air nearing an ocean. Dew on a cold morning lost within the sound of freshly brewed tea being poured into porcelain cups. The crackle of a fire. Don’t leave me. Winds whistling through a bamboo grove. The lamenting cry of a lonely hound. Taste of sweet confectionaries melting at the tip of my tongue. All the swirled up colors of space dust, nebulas, and galaxies. Especially the blue ones. The tinkling sound of grandma stirring tea in a cup. Poetry. The crinkling sound of a newspaper being crushed. White roses. White roses. White roses. White roses. Clouds when no one is looking. Oil-paper when wet. A sprig of lavender crushed between my fingers near Chichester. Moonstones, because of their color. The smell of bergamot in an Earl Grey cuppa. Clouds. Clouds. Clouds. Clouds. Clouds. Clouds. Yellowing old paper. Red ink on them. The smell of freshly washed hair and a hint of vanilla. People who cannot stop fidgeting with their hands. The sound of words like Fields of Asphodel, Rasputin, and Creole. The touch of hot wax droplets cooled on the skin. Veins in leaves. Gasoline overpowering all other smells. Soft, light cotton shawls on a humid day. Did I mention the moon? The flap of a stray curtain in the wind. Strong coffee. Mason jars. Empty like my heart on bad days. Pikachu’s voice. Half-done paintings. Salt on lips on a lonely walk down the beach. Blinking light posts on dark roads. I'm still here arent I? The warm patch on the duvet only felt in the wee hours of dawn. Dead butterfly’s wings. Rings on each finger. Finger tattoos. Faded now but lingering there, bluish grey and lonely. Help me. Rows after endless rows of books. Pthalo blue mixed with Crimson red. Add some Titanium white until you get a warm lavender. Red lipstick-stained cigarette butts. Always mint switch Dunhill. Don’t leave me. The leftover salt on the rim of a shot glass. The bitter part of that same slice of lime. Rainy days leading to more rainy days. Sunlight on red-brown hair. Curls in the wind. That one scent. Maybe Calvin Klein. Or was it Mont Blanc? Conversations with Death and anyone even remotely closer to being so cool.
And now I ask of you.
What makes a person? If not the little things…adding up to something larger than life.
If not these… then what?
