Claire

Claire

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

If I could give you anything, it would be the promise that there will always be a romantic movie at your disposal, and a good book in your hand.

I am grateful to have witnessed the way your blue eyes light up at the thought of first kisses and yellow scarves.

You are a friend to the past,

a lover of the vintage.

I am not claiming to be a fortune teller, but I predict that your future will be full of coffee stained notebook pages and quiet little glances that can easily be taken for granted.

I cannot give you everything. I cannot give you even half of what you deserve.

But I can promise that I will always have a place for you; that I will always think of you when I order chocolate croissants and when I secretly tuck movie ticket stubs into my purse.

Isn't it wonderful, to give love freely, and with the confidence that you will receive it back?

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Lines from Half Written Memories and Forgotten Feelings

Lines from Half Written Memories and Forgotten Feelings

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Once upon a time,

there was a girl who loved more than most and cried harder than many...

I've got to get back to rhyming,

And working on my poetic timing...

I want a "stay in the car until the song ends" kind of love...

Picture this: I'm walking through a mall on a Friday, and suddenly, I smell you;

the smell of old leather boots and aftershave...

If you wonder where she'll be,

you can find her by the sea...

It's cute, how your tongue gets twisted on your own jokes.

There is no such thing as silence. 

Somehow, there will always be noise...

If a piece of clothing could tell a story, I'd love to hear its tale...

What if the world wore a paid of glasses, for just a day?

I don't think things would be the same...

I write fairytales and first kisses that I don't believe in... 

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Polaroid

Polaroid 

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Just because your colors are muted,
Doesn't mean that you are dull.
It doesn't matter what he concluded,
As long as your heart is full. 

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Definition:

Definition:

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I have a Pinterest board dedicated to words.
Eccedentesiast: noun; someone who hides pain behind a smile.

I believe that words define people, even if we don't want them to.
Lacuna: noun; a blank space, a missing part.

We are all walking storybooks.
Solivagant: verb; wandering alone.

We all have lines that need to be read between.
Lypophrenia: noun; feeling of sadness, seemingly without any cause.

But we never stop long enough to find them.
Adronitis: noun; frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone.




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Serendipity

Serendipity

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I was born on a rainy day in January.

My grandma says I was a winter rose.

That was almost my middle name.

I grew up on mud pies and country songs;

I became a hoarder of books.

And now, here I am...puddle jumping to conclusions.

I wish I could fly.

I wish I could feel the raindrops against my wings as I look down on skyscrapers.

When I find "the guy",

I do not want him to promise me rainbows.

I want him to promise me that when it rains, he will leave the umbrella at home;

he will ask me to dance in the street and twirl me around so that the light of the street lamp close by blurs into a sunny horizon.

I do not want the polished, the put together.

I want the refurbished, the broken made new.

I want the rainy Wednesday's spent sitting in the car, listening to the music the storm around us composes.

Just for us.

I want to count the raindrops that are trapped in his eyelashes and to kiss away his tears.

I need grey skies and melancholy lullabies.

I need sopping hair and goosebumpy arms.

Leave the umbrella behind.

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Worth

Worth

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

You deface a dollar bill and you commit a crime.

Yet, at the end of the day, that bill will be fine.

You can cut, you can tear, you can break it down;

You can burn, you can crush, throw it to the ground...

yet that dollar bill is still worth all that it's worth.

Green and soft, stamped with the faces of History.

How it can go through so much and not degrade itself is still a mystery,

but that dollar is still worth all that it's worth.

You deface yourself and you commit a crime,

and unlike a dollar, you will not be fine.

You cut, you starve, you put yourself down;

You burn, you cry, you fall to the ground...

yet you are still worth all that you are worth.

Beautiful and bright, a part of History.

How you can't see it? To me, that is still a mystery,

but you are still worth all that you are worth.

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Smelling Like Smoke

Smelling Like Smoke

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

He,

smells like cigarettes and wasted dreams.

She, 

smells like a bonfire and a million regrets.

Both of them,

burning.

Two different outcomes.

Two different stories,

but they both smell like smoke when they get home.

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