Name Me Nebula

Summer Love

Tue, 21 May 2013 21:28:43 -0400

Tia Jones
5.21.13

It is summer-

When the night comes,
I will sing you to sleep
with songs of summer nights
and fireflies, the warmth of magic
that rests on your skin like dew.
I will run my fingers through
your hair, keeping each tendril
out of your face like a loving shepherd
of the hills of your cheekbones, your
forehead, your gently closed eyelids.

When the morning sun rises,
I will spark the stars in your eyes
and fuel them to burn brighter
than the sun that reaches down
to kiss your skin with fiery lips.
I will urge the breeze to whisper
sweet nothings in your ear and
make you feel like you’re flying,
like you’ve grown invincible and
beautiful wings.

And when the autumn comes,
I’ll do my best not to ask where you’ve gone.

Endeavoring

Mon, 20 May 2013 20:24:59 -0400

Tia Jones
5.17.13

I want to be that tree,
covered in rain,
trembling and sparkling
at the sight of the sun,
like hope is now
and not a “maybe tomorrow”.

I want to believe
that there is beauty now-
even in me, a fragile creature
endeavoring to be something
more than myself, making
these limbs a home for
tired and broken birds.

I am tired and broken myself,
but I want to believe
that the sun will break through
this smoke colored sky
and give us all new life.
When it does, I want to
reach out these limbs with joy,
not fold up in fear that
the rain will return.

Electric

Mon, 20 May 2013 20:17:26 -0400

Tia Jones
5.17.13

Let us be electric.
Let us sleep under jellyfish skies
with only hope for a blanket
and let our kisses shock these
broken hearts back to life.

Let us be the sun,
glowing radiant, the
best yet to come, reaching
for the glory of seemingly
endless days and falling
in flames only to rise
in flames again.

Let us be young
for just a while longer,
while we still know how
to live like it’s electric,
like it’s a fire in our souls.

There is a Home in Our Chests

Tue, 14 May 2013 01:07:24 -0400

Tia Jones
5.14.13

We sat there on the balcony,
the almost-summer air against our skin,
music pouring out from the windows,
unspeakable aches in our chest.

We poets, we came together with
our hearts in our hands for the
first time, vulnerable and tender flesh,
and our fingers entwined,
not looking for promises,
just a moment of comfort.

We found such refuge there.

Forgetfulness

Sun, 12 May 2013 14:11:07 -0400

Tia Jones
5.11.13

I have sought forgetfulness,
that elusive mistress
with eyes like sleeping pills,
promising numbness.

How she must float,
mist like and weightless
like fog on the empty streets.

How heavy it is to remember.
How tiring it is to hold
your memory to my chest as if
I could actually keep you alive.

I have sought forgetfulness,
and she has evaded me
endlessly, as if
I was born to remember.

To My Friends, Who are Going Away but Not Leaving

Sun, 12 May 2013 14:07:15 -0400

Tia Jones
5.8.13

I know you are afraid,
but on your loneliest nights,
while you are away,
count the stars and
ask for their names.
Ask them to guide you
to a better place and,
I promise, will be here
waiting for you to come home.

It’s not goodbye,
after all,
only a “until next time.”

Upon Meeting an Angel

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 21:22:58 -0400

Tia Jones
4.30.13

An angel came into my house
last night, tall and
honey-haired and glowing.

Her smile was sweet
and her eyes were kind.

She looked into the darkest
parts of my soul and
said she found beauty there.

Avocados

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 21:21:52 -0400

Tia Jones
4.29.13

I think heaven can be found
on a dew covered blanket.
I think we found it,
with our bare feet
tickling the grass and
our faces upturned to the sun.

I would have done anything
to make it last forever,

because I think heaven
rejoices in the slimy
feeling of an avocado
on your tongue and
laughter that comes
to the light after hiding
in the dark of the throat
for too long.

I think we found heaven,
and, by the grace of God,
I think we’ll find it again.

The Poet, In Black and White

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 18:53:39 -0400

Tia Jones
4.28.13

The poet came, dressed in
black and white, and
I handed him hope
in the form of an orange.
He kept it in his pocket.

I never want him to
find me empty handed.
I’m constantly grasping
for things only to
give them away,

hoping something as simple
as oranges and bracelets
can make him want to stay.

Transit

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 18:49:04 -0400

Tia Jones
4.27.13

I fall in love too much
with the temporary, with
the things that are determined to leave.

Maybe one day,
I will learn to let go.
Maybe my fingers will stop
clinging to transitory things-
white knuckled and
scraped from desire.

We are all transitory.
We all meet in passing.
We only fall in love and
know each other so much as
trains going in opposite directions
shed some light on each other.

Maybe one day,
I will learn to stop loving.

When the Silence is Broken

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 18:48:28 -0400

Tia Jones
4.26.13

I have been waiting.
I have been waiting so long to breathe,

and before I know it
there are tears, and there
are corduroy arms
holding me- and dear God
there is air.

My chest has been tight
for so long, and now there
is a chin on the top of my head
and there are shaking hands
on my shoulder and there
are corduroy arms
holding me closer than the
unspoken ache, arms that know.
And there is a voice
saying, “You deserve more,”

and there are tears,
because I don’t know
how to believe, but

Dear God, I have been
waiting so long to breathe.

Dandelion Princess

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 23:43:00 -0400

Tia Jones
4.25.13

We found ourselves
down by the pond,
and you sat there
with golden suns
orbiting around
your head,
looking serenely at me
as if there were
something to see.

The crown of dandelions
you placed on my head
has wilted, but
the love you left there,
like the glow of the sun,
has not left me yet.

Card Houses

Thu, 25 Apr 2013 23:21:17 -0400

Tia Jones
4.24.13

We built a home for ourselves
out of words and papers,
but card houses are
the first to fall
and no phrase could be
support enough to hold it up
not even, “I love you”.

I remember how we wanted it all,
swift fingers nimbly placing
each card in its place with our
promises “we will” and “we won’t”
and we said we’d never let it fall,

but we did and now we don’t
know where to go from here
our matchstick bodies lying
under collapsed card castles
saying, “we can still see
the stars from here,” but
it’s all blood diamonds
and spades to hide us
when we’re gone.

I use these papers to
make my bed, all of the
“should have‘“s and “could have‘“s
and “if I could only take it back‘“s.
I’ve made my bed here,
and there are no stars to light my night.

Wisp

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 14:44:04 -0400

Tia Jones
4.23.13

You are a wisp,
a hint of something solid.
You are distant, but present
and you come in gusts
like the wind.

Please don’t pull away
not when it matters the most.

The best we can hope
to be is the leaves on
the tree whispering,
“You are worth so much
more than this,” as
you blow through.

Praying it will touch you
one day when you need it most.

Toll

Wed, 24 Apr 2013 14:37:30 -0400

Tia Jones
4.22.13

I’ve been told that
you’re not supposed
to run from your feelings,
but I do.

I’ve run through my
fair share of state lines,
crashing through toll booths
at ninety miles an hour,
but it always takes
its toll on me.

I’m just a twenty year old
in a stolen car,
shaking and afraid.

Night as a Lover

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 01:07:18 -0400

Tia Jones
4.21.13

He carries starlight
in his wake,
and I’m just grasping
for occasional pieces of
straw-like sunlight.
Some people are
born beautiful.

He named me
after his favorite
constellation
one night,
and told me I
was just like her,
in pieces.
I never claimed
otherwise.

I kept saying
I would leave,
but he kissed so well
it made me drunk
and it tasted like poetry.
He loves in a way
that holds you there,
but he always leaves
at dawn.

In Memoriam

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 01:02:00 -0400

Tia Jones

4.20.13

The rain washed away my tree

and left me with just the

bitter cold of an endless winter.

The creek was empty, and I shook

as grief entered my lungs like panic.

I sat on the cold, wet ground

and finally fell to pieces,

like my bones had been

aching to do for so long.

“I’m so tired,” I said,

“Everyone left, but the tree stayed,

just like me. It was my one good thing.”

Now it’s gone, it’s timeless magic,

it’s moment of refuge,

and I start to think I’m more

like the tree than I thought.

Maybe after this winter,

no one will want me.

Maybe I’m washed up too.

I weep, but it’s more of

a goodbye to myself,

a heartbroken remembrance

of the good things that

used to live in my chest.

Cut Off

Fri, 19 Apr 2013 16:40:04 -0400

Tia Jones
4.19.13

You looked at me,
like a man looks at a limb
that is to be cut off,
first with tenderness,
then with loathing.

And you did just that,
you cut me off
like I was poison
to your blood.

I was loyal, I was
always at your side,
even now that I am
separated from you,

I am yours.

: For the Poets

Thu, 18 Apr 2013 23:03:09 -0400

: For the Poets:

ihavesunhands:

Tia Jones
4.18.13

Dear God,

This is not another prayer for myself.
I am tired of praying for myself.
I am tired of wanting and wanting
and wanting and thinking that
one more thing will make me happy.

This is a prayer for the poets.

For the girl who doesn’t know
just how beautiful she is.
She fumbles for explanations
every time she speaks,
and keeps a distance from everyone
because she’s afraid of leaving,
afraid she’ll hurt anyone close.
She doesn’t see that she’s the
one pulling everyone together
and making a home.

This is for the boy who is
always three days away from
suicide, who shakes from the
pills life has handed him,
who brings everyone around him
hope like a light but isn’t sure
if he wants to live just yet,
at least not for himself.
He can’t see just how lovely
his soul is, that he is
worth living for.

Dear God, this is for the poets.
This is for the people who say
a million things with their silence,
who can nod in understanding
at pain unspeakable
and just know.

I’m sending this prayer up for them.
Because, dear God, if I could
take their pain and put it
in my chest where they couldn’t
feel it anymore, then You know I would.
And to be honest, God, I don’t know
if this frightens me or makes me
love them even more.
Maybe it does both.

I won’t ask for happy endings
for myself, I don’t even know
what that would look like anymore,
but God, if you can find
the poets tonight, slide in bed
beside them and fill their dreams
with flying and their thoughts
with love and hope, if you can
take the pain away for one night,
give them a reason to live
one more day,

Dear God, that would be enough.

Such Soft Shoulders

Wed, 17 Apr 2013 22:48:21 -0400

Tia Jones
4.16.13

Tonight, I remembered
your tender shoulder blades
the way they held the loose arms
that held me when I was afraid,
somehow strong enough
to crush all of my fears.

I watched,
as time carved you out,
replaced your softness
with strength, until
you were a sculpture
made of granite,
and you didn’t want
me anymore.

Tonight, I remembered
that I miss the soft arms
that once held me tight
enough to drive my fears away,
and I am afraid.