[x]

alpengloweverything hard-kept in the heart is falling onto paper. each word so well-fought to be kept within the chest becomes a snowflake from november skies, but the winds are unseasonably warm and a fire is kindled inside each bone in place of a bitter chill.

there are ten thousand things i can never tell you.

the way that wars are fought, i wage battles among my selves to keep the quiet. you will never hear my voice, too soft like the pillow beneath your head each time our bodies find each other, say how my breath becomes a porch swing when we touch and i sway.

i can never call you by any name, given at birth or given by heart. you will neve

standing armyi didn't feel myself signing away
the next indefinable period of my life
to worry and unease
when i couldn't find words
to tell you what you saw
in the
spaces
between.

if i don't break our bonds
tying us like kite strings
across a few cities
and maybe a couple hours,
i will write you letters
instead of quiet times
resting on your pillows,
or the inlets of your arm.

i will be segmented
like the trunk of an earthworm
between boston,
the berkshires,
and missouri's banks;
i will wait for the mail
and days of leave,
the way i never was able
to project ahead to see
i was the last person,
a child in a woman's body,
to enli

a thorough submissioni have found my heart-
it has put itself into this.
my hesitations are little more
than bad habits,
filed somewhere between
biting my nails and always saying i'm sorry.

the expectation of the winds
blowing softer til they ceased
ended with your mouth on mine;
the nerves fraying from fear
have been tended to with needle and thread;
and the water i so wiklfully wouldn't touch
feels warmer as it inches
like your hands
up my ankles to my bare knees.

i have found my heart-
it has put itself into this.
my stomach turns the ocean calm
when i think of the messes i'll make,
and the sewing you will stitch.
and i'm terrified
like ni

write what hurtsi'm here to tell you
about fire and living
& how both burn even if you ignore them

it's not about what feels good
it's about what doesn't
cornering what hurts
and exposing it
really displaying it
pedestal on high
for what it is
and not what it pretends to be

you are not living
until you hurt
you can't be alive
if all you know is comfort

comfort is only a sign
that you are doing what you know
it is admittance of limitation
because you are human
and only know so much
and it's agonising to think
that you can be comfortable with that
and not want to reach out
and touch every thing you find
and read every book you see
an

the commutei keep your kiss
under my bed:
i won't lose it
just because you aren't here.

instead,
i will hesitate in the spaces
between the weeks
we are together,
and we are
apart.

i will write you letters
and gaps and commas
when my head stops spinning
and my pride takes a bow
to the lion of my heart,
and feel the stinging air
of imagination
seep out of its balloon.

put your (love) affairs in order, dear
and find me under your blankets;

i want the places i know best
to be the ones made of skin,
secretly tucked away
in the crook of your elbow
where my body rests, or
behind your ear,
like a pencil-

i want you to write me words

unending, ceaselessnothing exists
better
than the moment
hesitant
anticipatory
of entrance
entranced
by the sway
porch swings
of hips
how pendulums
tick

and we talk
murmurs
until taciturnity
takes hold
of each others' tongues
and gasps
sudden
cause gaps
in the connection
unbreakable
as unity
unties
only to retie
in ceaseless
reunion
again.

sleeping dogslet sleeping dogs lie-
do not reach out &
touch his dreaming face,
do not lean close to kiss
his shuttered eyelids;

wait for him to wake &
let time pass
until it is time to love him.

let him rest his weary head
on the arms he wears at home,
cold boston winds
telling him when the
next train comes;
& when he must sleep
in a rusting missouri,
wish him the sweetest dreams.

let sleeping dogs lie
& drift between sleep & awake,
missouri & boston & virginia.
let him sleep unencumbered
& be there endlessly
until it is time to love him.

i have the right not to give excuses or reasonsi am not going to
explain myself
away.

i am no ocean tide,
ebbing and flowing
over the sands of us,
and your approval-
your pleasure
of what i am
is not needed.

you do not
need to know
why i am hurt,
why we do not speak,
or why i still love you.
you do not
need to understand
(the way the moon
does its stars)
why i feel and ache
and show this on
my skin and bone.

the fear,
however,
of keeping you away,
of creating distance
more than the miles
between home
and georgia,
relinquishes
the power i hold
between my teeth
and i burrow
like scarab beetles in the sand
into why,
why,
why.

i cannot wait
to breathe
an

the end, actuallylassitude builds
nests in my bones
flightless birds
forming words
as effective at becoming airborne
as the words "i'm sorry"
and sometimes
they just refused to try

the most prominent thought
circling my head
like the words that could soar
was knowledge-
there is a big chance
we will not make it through the night,
that i will never be held
captive
in the cage of your eyes
and trapped by a heart

i must be committing
some atrocities
but i do not know which ones-
there just might be
a limit
on the number of tears
you can shed
over one person;

we are not snakes
and cannot remove our skin
so we cry instead

but throug

scattered grassrootsi am the great plains-
vast,
barren,
and sparse.

i begin losing my hair and
scattered grassroots
define me.

i am tumbleweeds lost in the wind,
tumultuous dust storms
from the dryness i leave you in.
this becomes my skin.

i miss having someone
to tell i love,

but the ache it left in my bones,
deserts and sands,
is reminder enough

that fond remembrance
doesn't mean it's
there.

constellations are just bodiesyou left me in my bed-
i was crying-
when you walked down my stairs
for the last time.

you were to spend the night-
you lived hours away-
until you told me
you couldn't do this
anymore.

i was fine-
you were just a constellation-
until your words
forced images of my last love
before my mind's eye.

i cried before you-
i hadn't cried in months-
but i didn't cry for you.

in retrospect, as you closed my door-
it was the last time-
my only thought is
why didn't we fuck
before saying goodbye?

the first poem i wrote since i told you i love youthe star-soaked stains
that covered our nudity
gives way at last
to a tequila sunrise,
so low in the sky;

it's still bright enough
to sting my eyes,
and yet i can't bring myself
to hate it.

your body next to mine,
every effort is made
to move a heavy limb
closer
because any space
we have
is space i don't want.

i am sometimes humbled
by my feelings,
the way they swell
in my throat
just how the ocean
tastes the shore.

there is always something new
to find hidden in my heart,
summoned by my words,
or the salt of your skin
wearing like wind on shale
against mine.

i don't think i can ever tell you
i love you enough.

i

nosiness and lmfaook,
so my night starts out
in fits of sneezing blues
and dark air.
i find myself in fits
as my sheets melt into my body
but my consciousness
is as present as ever,
so please forgive me
when i can't push my skin
into your personal space
and content myself
with personal questions.

i don't know how to feel thunder,
but i'm betting it's like this,
i'm betting it's like
standing under the beads of
hot shower for long enough
that your skin shrivels like a fig's.
all i get is that it's
electric, and i am
so afraid
to imagine what it would be like
to actually touch you
with intent.

look-

i tell you
how this boy
with cotto

first weekend and realisationsyou begin to talk
because talking means that
someone else can't
&you start to realise
(as most girls do)
that you have a boyfriend

&soon
he's not just a boyfriend;
he's your boyfriend
&he's not just better than
anyone else in the world
he's better than
anything else in the world

&you would trade years off your life
to spend a little longer with him
or to see him smile when he's sad
or to feel his face in your hair
the way he does when he hugs you
&you can't feel it
because right now he's too far away

but distance is only the space between
point a and point b
between you&between me
&if you give it just a little more tim

barcelona is burningi owe you an apology-
you, in the crowd,
the one panicking about reading
or the mess at home
or the sheer volume of people
pressing into you like corners;

you,
the woman who birthed me into this world
through hours of agony
as though that wasn't enough
because doctor appointment after therapy appointment after residential stay after thirtieth pound lost,
i've put you through countless
sleepless nights
warped into months of agony
you never asked for;

and you, oh, mostly you.
you, because as hard as i've beaten my own heart into the wall,
and as deep as i let you bury mine,
i know, somehow, i managed to do the same to you.

yo

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i am a salamanderyou were the heaviest weight in my legs when i sunk to the sediment below the surface, the salted winds birthing vacancies in my stomach; a paler form of death, light my hands on fire; a sweeter breath of black, pull me further under.

-

i have always been a salamander, losing myself only to grow once more. i am the curtains in our window, densely drawn and writhing like water snakes, simply sheer films of fabric dancing under the pretense of being something special. i hope someday you love me; i hope someday i'm worth loving. for now, i am a seashell ring wrung round my finger, imprinted with starfish and clenching over the veins at the kn

the blue doorthere's a woman who lives opposite me, on the other side of the road. her fence is too tall, and so are her shoes. she has a blue door with an oval of glass in the centre. it looks like an ugly mirror; she likes this because what does it imply of the subject within the frame if the mirror itself is ugly?

she was born in austria and still has the accent to prove it, but no longer the husband. she writes at night, on a typewriter because that's what he liked. she wrote him letters, she wrote stories of his life. mostly, she focused on his inability to differentiate between 'always' and 'never.'

"what's the difference?" he would always say, a

i scream louder than the windmy arms are stinging something fierce
the soreness singing songs to me
the way you once did

it sounds loud now,
loud and low;
the beauty is fading,
the pain sitting still.
i think we are screaming
nonsense and poems
but the black air will no
longer hear it

my fingers are dripping salt from their backs
axes like they have spines
rigor mortis strikes my face like your
open palm, your open mouth, your
empty, empty words but,
my God,
i do not die
and yet

it feels wrong to peel these words
from long rows of tree bark
i am the canoe
shaped from birch branches
or curved elm trunks-
empty
a crucible,
green glass bottle
hum

in fifty yearsi think that even
God will leave me, that's how lone-
ly you make me feel.

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[x]

the saturday after your birthday is where i found

by *ohsostarryeyed, Nov 21, 2012, 11:40:38 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Urban & Spoken Word

before you there was an incessant need to be touched
but for no longer than the time it took to touch, sweat, and moan
and never by the same hands twice;
for vacancies to be filled
and to never have an empty bed when sleep finally came.

when i found you it was dark and i was drunk.
it wasn't a story built for the centuries,
but we will be the lovers whose names are remembered for the years to come,
tied and woven in song and into the bodies of trees, we will be so in love
that the angels above will cry in jealousy because in my haze,
heavy and raw and with everything burning inside me, i'm afraid i fell in love that night.

being against you was not enough
i needed you on me-in me-everywhere i turned you needed to be there
no space between my body and yours no air
just skin and skin and skin and
movements rough enough to catch soft sweaters like dry elbows

i needed you to be so entwined with me that we breathed in sync.
our hearts opened and closed in a symphony, chords not harmonies, they were the same.
i needed a conductor to take your ticket from your hands and tell you
don't go back. what you've been looking for is where you already are.
i needed you to curve around me so i could curve into you.

what i needed was something worth having-

what i needed
was you.

the saturday after your birthday is where i foundby *ohsostarryeyed

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Urban & Spoken Word

you.

godiamdisgustingwhydidiwritethishalpz

~peridot-magelette Dec 26, 2012

I am so glad you're in love, not only because I'm happy for you but because if the exquisite poetry it produces XD I especially love everything after "being against you was not enough."

*dietcocaine Nov 26, 2012 Writer

_{There is nothing disgusting about this.}

*ohsostarryeyed Jan 24, 2013

so sappy!

*dietcocaine Jan 28, 2013 Writer

*UnspecifiedUnknown Nov 23, 2012 Writer

^{"no space between my body and yours no air
just skin and skin and skin and
movements rough enough to catch soft sweaters like dry elbows"

i felt this.
funny feeling, eh?}

*ohsostarryeyed Nov 25, 2012

it makes me extraordinarily uncomfortable because i don't like feelings, especially when i can't gauge their depth. it's very scary

*UnspecifiedUnknown Nov 25, 2012 Writer

^{feelings are by necessity irrational.
take comfort}

~mouseluva Nov 23, 2012 Student General Artist

This is lovely (:

*ohsostarryeyed Nov 25, 2012

thank you, dear <3

~radiovoice Nov 22, 2012

so, so beautiful. thankyou for sharing. you are very talented and i love it each time deviantart shows me that you've posted something new

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