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this is less of a love poem and more of athere is something to be said
about resisting the temptation
to start out with a bang.
the hallway of your neck
has never lost its scent
and it's something, i swear,
i swear, i can never forget
because it's something surreal
to wake up while you're asleep
and feel you pull me closer
til our faces almost meet-
hold onto that almost,
hold onto it like stardust.
you need to touch me in a whisper
because it's been too long
since i've felt the hand of someone
who actually meant it,
someone who actually meant something
and i'm so glad, my god,
i'm on my knees
i am praying to(o,) my god
that we won't burn out so quick this time,
i'm too tired to bear new scars
i just want you to love me
but that's not something i could ever ask.
just some time maybe,
i know that no august moon can watch us forever
and keep us warm,
and no constellation can teach me everything
i've ever needed to know.
but everything ugly i ever saw about you
and everything unflattering?
it's gone like the magic we
revelations in the mudi only want to fall in love
if someone is there
to fall with me.
i want to jump from high places
and pretend i'm flying,
i'm a bird, i'm light enough at-fucking-last
for the air to catch me,
and the harsh grounds beneath me?
can't touch this.
but i'm earthbound
and parachutes will not work
if you do not open them,
and i am just so sick
of feeling like maybe,
becoming an abstract painting
on the rocks below, would be enough...
but there is something beating in my chest.
i'm very afraid of what it is.
and i don't know a lot,
like the size of the universe.
or why you sought solace in the south.
or how i came to be in this crater that swallowed me whole;
but i do know the second you told me
you felt the same for me like i did for you,
something in my universe shifted.
part of my soul went to georgia...
and i began to climb.
the purpose of life is to knock you on your ass
so you have to do something with it to get back up.
i don't know about you,
but i'm pretty fuckin' tired of feelin
presumptionsi know i'm a very common-,
i look like i floss my teeth
at least once a week
and have never worn
like i devour books like candy
and never talked during class.
it's funny when people are nothing like how they look.
so let me tell you something,
let me set you straight:
i'd have you believe
i'm not some heavily medicated girl
with snakes up and down her body
in bright red rows, all raw and scabbed and
constant, ceaseless, neverending reminders of fucked-up and failure...
but it never took much for you to talk me into bed.
letting you think i'm some perfect porcelain figurine
without cracks all up my spine is about as ok as forging your mom's signature;
meaning it's alright as long as it's nothing serious.
and maybe that's the problem.
playing hopscotch cross-continent all summer and
making a patchwork quilt out of our travels when the cold sets in
is a pretty serious stab at giving us another go.
i can deal with touch, i just might shudder
a lack of language, in coloursyou tell me you miss me
and that i am more beautiful
than any girl in georgia
or even barcelona.
everything is fitting like magic
between fingers when they
and i swear for the past three nights,
that's all i've dreamt.
give me acrylics
and i still can't make you see
the exact shade of warm
you are to me.
give me the ocean
and there are not enough waves
in its body
to show just the way i feel
when our own vessels move together.
seven months since we last said goodbye,
since we last said hello-
i could fill libraries
to love you.
what i really want to ask
is if you think you can
love me this time.
home is in the hollow of darkness .collabi stand quivering,
like a candle's flame open
in the winter breeze.
my heart skips
a beat. then another,
death feels like this, when
you let it creep into your
hollow bones again.
like a spider's web,
big or small before
it becomes true that
you are never freer than
the moment you breathe
your last, and let your
fingers slip through the thin cracks
til you disappear.
lost in eyes of the
so breathe deep young one,
as deep as the hollows of
your lungs allow you.
cut free the tangles
that hold you beneath ever-
shifting tides, and know
it is finally
time to embrace the darkness
that will take you home.
projected profitsi keep picturing us in fifteen years, but it's more like ten. we're sleeping and the quiet sun gently pushes on our eyelids. we turn softly in the mounds of white cloth covering our bed, one or both of us making those slight moans of vague consciousness completely against our wills.
we live in a house, or maybe a flat. it might be in europe, in one of the countries you visited when we found our ways back to one another. the buildings are smooth and white, but the garden is not lacking for colour. the greens are denser than water, the sky more saturated blue than our swimsuits, hanging off the lip of the small balcony.
maybe it's switzerland, or germany. neither of us speak the native language, but with signals and human understanding, we make our ways through.
in the mornings we both reach for our car keys. mine are on the table, yours are on the hook by the door. there is always coffee in the early
breathing takes a second too longi'm just going to write this all out because if i stop to so much as breathe or count the seconds in my head until i feel like maybe you're a little closer to me then i might just fall apart. i don't have much control over my punctuation or spelling or grammar but i also don't have much control over myself and especially not over you and me together, and it's terrifying but it's all i want.
i want to be able to see you and i want to press myself against you as tightly as i can because there have been way too many miles between us for way too long and all i want is you and when i stand up i want you to still be against me and when i lie down i want you still to surround me and when i walk over to the door to leave because maybe you made me sad or maybe it's just time to go i want to walk out to my doorstep and have you still be encircling me like i am the destination on your map that you've been looking for for so long.
i don't want to be the sore spot between your elbow and forearm fro
how not pretending anymore is a blessingi won't pretend to anyone that i'm not scared. here i am, standing before god-knows-how-many-people, telling them things i don't have the heart to even tell my mother. especially things i don't have the heart to tell my mother.
i could never tell her how many times i've looked at the stars and used them to hold onto my wishes on paper strings, make them hold onto my wishes and me, mostly me, like a marionette
until the sky faded from black to blue, just like the bruises i put on my skin. sometimes a girl doesn't know how to cope, and that's why those paper strings, those thin, angry lines hanging from the heavens,
found their ways to my arms and bled me happy.
i could never tell my mother how i've dreamt of flying and dying and how i can't tell the difference anymore, just the way i can't look in the mirror without crying, just the way i can't look in the mirror and tell if i am human or monster.
it's impossible to tell the woman who put you into this world through hours of pain, becau
in four weeks,i cannot wait to fall asleep
peacefully and soundly
with your skin,
tall and warm
we will slumber and dream
and awake in each other's arms.
you will come home
in four weeks.
the flights will taper away,
and you will leave behind
and remember, please,
that i am what waits
those thousands of miles
ahead of you.
i want you to buy me flowers
so i can feel guilty over you
having spent money on me
but feel beautiful
because of how beautiful
the petals are
and the hands that gave them
i want to put us in photographs
so that i can remember
the way that you touch me
because as months fade into
it becomes easier to forget.
i would rather forget my own name
than your skin on mine.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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