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Literature Text
i have to be honest;
seeing you has always felt like
looking inside a cityscape, nightlight kaleidoscope
and i've grown accustomed
to fragility and our literal,
nanosecond dalliances.
we flicker on and off at the speed
of improbable, dysfunctional
light. i have to be honest;
i am honestly afraid
of your sorrowful sighs, and eclectic
gaze, though eerie and off in its
lissome niche, still crawls under my skin
and plants little foxgloves
where i can never find them.
you worry after events so impossible
that your aura of floral hues
giggles and reminds you
that kept-secret cardamom leaves have stayed
for as long as you asked
and let you sleep soundlessly with
midnight traffic lullabies. morning,
we both know, is tainted with the dull mauve
of my departure and now that it's time
for yours, i have to be honest;
you mustn't
grieve.
you are more than a secret
that will be forgotten with the creak
of a silent grandfather clock, and your
petals, my sweet, your beautiful petals,
still grace me in my discomfort. they
speak (have you heard?) and sing
in your mellifluous, pianist voice
of how big cities are homes to short
romances and that ours
looking inside a cityscape, nightlight kaleidoscope
and i've grown accustomed
to fragility and our literal,
nanosecond dalliances.
we flicker on and off at the speed
of improbable, dysfunctional
light. i have to be honest;
i am honestly afraid
of your sorrowful sighs, and eclectic
gaze, though eerie and off in its
lissome niche, still crawls under my skin
and plants little foxgloves
where i can never find them.
you worry after events so impossible
that your aura of floral hues
giggles and reminds you
that kept-secret cardamom leaves have stayed
for as long as you asked
and let you sleep soundlessly with
midnight traffic lullabies. morning,
we both know, is tainted with the dull mauve
of my departure and now that it's time
for yours, i have to be honest;
you mustn't
grieve.
you are more than a secret
that will be forgotten with the creak
of a silent grandfather clock, and your
petals, my sweet, your beautiful petals,
still grace me in my discomfort. they
speak (have you heard?) and sing
in your mellifluous, pianist voice
of how big cities are homes to short
romances and that ours
was never baseless;
it was infinite.
Literature
Counting the Rings
i
near my sick bed
he murmurs of how he's crumbling
but I'm still here
I've fought so long, I'm here
for a while I trust
I believe this, I must
even when it's bad, because
his faith alone is not enough
my random thoughts of how long
I have, and his thoughts of
"will she be able to outlive me" -
even at moments like this
it happens that
we hold on and speak of a future
ii
rolling restless this early morn'
you exhausted and I
drying up from a virus
spying through the shredding
of 250-thread count bedding,
between the hillocks of your shoulders
we never can sleep
in anticipation for what's to come
to plant the seed and watch it grow
Literature
petaled memories of a younger dreamer
I miss the days
when I thought girls
felt like roses,
and the rain
was my worst enemy
I thought I'd never
understand a soliloquy
in all its purpose and
adulthood still loomed
a distant thundering possibility
the open road
was a hobby
flipping cassettes in a car
that's no longer made
on a longer mountain road
the time of life
when you believe finally
in what you never knew
you believed and friends
lived wide hung close
I miss those days
when getting older
felt new and when
I anticipated my first
touch of a rose
Literature
Dormant
Winter is a blank slate,
but not like Rousseau's
it cleanses
sucking out warmth like poison
leaving only windburnt frost
tacked to the window pane
all we remember
is the numbness
the shuddering
skittish steps across the ice
snowflakes pasted to our faces
smoke rising from our lips
dragged across bleak clouds
winter has us captured
bound by fur and walls
drifting in our eggshelled silence
bone cold until we birth ourselves by warmth
emerge from our shells wet and heaving
uncurl our fingers one by one
joints crackling like fire at our backs
until spring comes
drip by tender drip
old wounds thaw
we are found raw,
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Comments72
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Your poetry is absolutely wonderful. I knew by the third line that I was going to love this.
(On an unrelated note: I have to ask--based off that last line and the description--Have you even seen/read Perks of Being a Wallflower?)