An Epiphany

An Epiphany

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I've got goosebumps on my arms and butterflies in my stomach.

The goosebumps are there because it's a little more than chilly outside. 

The butterflies moved in when I decided that I like the way his voice dips down when he says my name.

The light that stands tall a few feet away from me shines in a blurry sort of way, thanks to the smoke that curls towards the sky in pretty little wisps.

I've just now had an epiphany: this whole time, I've been growing up, and now I'm as old as I've ever been.

I've outgrown my cradle, I've left the kids menu behind.

Here I am, holding hands under the table in an attempt to be discreet and singing along to songs I am too young to know.

I'm whispering secrets to friends I've known for only minutes and making room for memories I forgot that I'd forgotten.

I love how it feels to be this young; I have yet to lice so many adventures.

There are still so many stars for me to make wishes on.

I've been offered a drink now, and I take a sip as someone skips my favorite song.

I suppose I didn't realize I'd got to be this old; I was too busy wasting my days, wishing I was older.

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During Intermission

During Intermission

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I'll tie a daisy chain around your finger so that you don't forget.

I will leave little reminders of how much I care until you believe them.

Give me a chance to map out the blueprints to the future in this indigo sky.

In Manhattan, porch lights look like shooting stars and trains breathe beneath pedestrians who don't know each other's names.

In Virginia, small towns are splattered all around; people bike to their breakfast and beg the world to slow down.

Right here in my broken city, we're somewhere in the middle.

And that is a place I don't mind being because I know that you're just an afternoon away.

The snag in the plan is that you seem to be either two pages ahead or a paragraph behind me.

That's okay.

I think the subtleties of life are oftentimes found in the timing.

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Ask Me Anything

Ask Me Anything

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I believe in the significance of moments that seem unimportant;

the split second of eye contact, the accidental brush of a hand...you know the kind.

The tricky thing is that those precious moments can be interpreted all kinds of differently.

Go ahead; ask me anything.

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Multifaceted

Multifaceted

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Some people have constellations in their pockets;

I prefer to keep shooting stars in vintage lockets, tucked away in kitchen drawers and hidden underneath bed frames.

I have been told that I have a wandering heart and steady eyes.

A boy by any other name could smell just as bad, so you should keep your escape route ready.

I learned that the hard way.

Nowadays, it's as though no one can just be honest.

Tell me to my face and trust me, I promise, we'd be able to avoid the "fake news" cycle.

Writers sings the blues because at least melodies can't be spiteful.

Don't act like I'm being demanding.

Not responding to a text isn't me being rude, it's you not understanding that people have to take turns.

And for once, I don't care if my words burn the eyes that are reading them.

I wrote these words for the person who's really needing them.

This one is for me.

Look, all my feelings lined up on a phone screen.

Go ahead and over analyze them,

Maybe you'd learn to compromise then.

And by the way, I'm not always okay.

That's just something I like to say to keep the tears away.

Look closer next time;

I only ever rhyme when you should have already listened.

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Eye Contact

Eye Contact

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

I don't give up.

Not on things;

Not on people.

But,

if I'm going to keep running after you,

I need you to at least give me a sign that I am running towards something worth while.

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Thought #88

Thought #88

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

Wouldn't it be crazy cool if we could handle this situation like the adults that we are?

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If You Don't Believe in Magic...

If You Don't Believe in Magic...

A Poem by Brigid Cooley

...pay attention to the way shriveled up fingers come to life as they dance across piano keys.

...study the way people band together to comfort one another after an unspeakable tragedy occurs.

...look at the lines of concentration that are drawn onto the foreheads of those who create,

as they try to find just the right word,

to get the drawing right,

to sew the hem perfectly.

Have you ever spoken to a girl right after she has been kissed for the first time?

Have you seen the way her eyes light up, and how her dreams of Spring weddings and her plans for the future perch themselves atop her blushing cheeks?

Have you ever heard a baby laugh as their father plays a game of peekaboo with them?

Now, if that isn't magic...I don't know what is.

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