to finals week.

you’re like the moment I run out of air underwater.

.

a stream of bubbles dissipating to nothing,

the pressure filling my brain and

lungs collapsing inwards.

.

nothing’s more rewarding than that

reviving gasp of oxygen once

my head floats to surface.

.

winter break feels like the car ride home from the community pool.

.

seatbelt fastened (courtesy of mom) ,

the humming heater easing the

goosebumps along my skin.

.

my muscles ache with

Endorphins,

eyes easing shut.

.

.

I always have the best sleep

after swimming.

.

with love,

olivia

to Saturday, 5:45 a.m.

charcoal shadows blanket the city,

each house still tucked in and hidden from the ebony night.

it’s an uneasy and unusual feeling—

stillness covers the once-bustling streets,

stirring silence almost too perfect, a rarity of its own.

with dark pink clouds and deep orange along your horizon,

you bring promise of morning light and new beginnings

to those sleeping heads under your watch.

with love,

olivia

to writing.

I don’t think I’ll ever understand your technicalities

or even the conventional ways you’re perceived.

Billions of possibilities are held in your hands.

You carry love, joy, deep sadness and remorse.

You’re an essay, a business pitch, a loved one’s kind birthday wishes.

You’re a series of symbols crafted into what we call a “word”,

with society unanimously understanding your singular meaning.

Yet you can create confusion, wonder, mystery, when pieced together.

How can a string of letters provoke such emotion, driven from abstract thought?

Your power exceeds farther than any living being or god above, for your art bestows immortality.

Perception is materialized the moment it reaches your possession, forever cemented into existence.

You carry a fleeting feeling far longer than any mind, beyond a writer’s youth and passing.

I will forever yearn to understand your complexities.

with love,

olivia

to the San Francisco fog.

your grey haze casts over us

for what feels like everyday, all the time. 

you make the neighborhood’s colored houses a little brighter

and the occasional tree or flower patch a little more vibrant. 

your absence ensures every city-dweller to never take blue skies for granted–

pale skin absorbing golden rays,

no longer concealed by sweaters and scarves and coats. 

lazy quiet afternoons hidden indoors are a necessity with you,

which are best accompanied by

a warm baking oven and thoughts scribbled along lined paper. 

You’re sluggish and muggy,

but you make a sourdough grilled cheese taste like heaven. 

with love,

olivia