Tonight, It Rains
Tonight, I wear rain like a blanket,
letting it run rivulets down my every curve and hollow,
allowing it to seep into my bones,
into the deepest recesses of my mind,
and the darkest caverns of my soul,
so that I may clear out the debris that has piled up so heavily, and
float to the surface my drowned desires revived.
Tonight, I shall let the rain soak me clean of my thoughts and torments,
relishing as it pools between my ears, puddles around my heart,
and ripples down my spine in waves of gentle reminder,
dredging up my own infinite knowing.
Tonight, I wear rain like a blanket;
Tonight, I know peace.
Some nights I feel like screaming at the sky and
begging the stars for answers.
Some nights I want to dip my hand into the inky darkness above and
swirl the stars around until they make sense, and
some nights I wish I could wrangle the stars and wrench them into place,
to foretell my story the way I wish them to.
And, if I did manage to do so,
perhaps the stars would simply laugh and rearrange themselves
because they knew best all long.
Or perhaps, intrigued by my mortal frustrations,
they would stay where I placed them,
knowing that I still would not understand their language,
could not fathom the brilliance of their creation,
of all the stories they have ever told, and
will continue to tell forever more—
entangled and perfect.
The Secrets We Write
Spoken words pass through the air so fleetingly
Coarse with feelings and heavy with emotion
They bare themselves openly
Jumping too quickly off our tongues
They launch themselves into the air
Where they float mysteriously
Until they are sucked into our minds suddenly
Only to leave just as fast
And only the most barbed or beautiful
May attach to our hearts momentarily
But words on a page, they stay with us
Our eyes wear them down
Imprinting them onto our minds
Letting them settle under our skin
Allowing them into our innermost chambers
Where we may take the time to turn them over
Like a sweet lozenge under your tongue
Whose flavour is drawn out
And coats the roof of your mouth
The essence of the words before you
Slowly releases its secrets
A pang in your heart that comes before any concrete thought
A sudden stirring that pulls you out of the world for a second
And sets it aflame
The written word may not shout or sing
Or cry out for attention
But left there on the page
Julia Yee recently moved from New York City to Paris to follow her dreams and write full time in the City of Light. When she’s not posting original poetry on her Instagram page (day.dream.diaries), she writes children’s books, freelance copy-writes, and co-hosts a book themed podcast (Meet Me At The Bookstore)!