Hardy. Pah. She'd had to study it when she was seventeen, the poems about that wonderful, fictional place called Wessex. Wonderful. She'd never understood the romance other people saw in a sad old man writing poems about a landscape that only he could see. She placed it back on the shelf in front of her with possibly more force than was necessary.
That was four years ago now. School. Four quick, simple years of more books and music and art and dancing that she'd enjoyed so much that now they were gone. A university degree and maybe a Masters on the way; s
Fingers numbly, blindly holding paper
that's trying to fly away.
Navy blue stains on those few keys:
L and Y and I.
Raw, red lips held in submission by
teeth anxiously straining.
Thoughts like butterflies flitting,
escaping the pins stuck in them.
Empty hands aching to not
reach out.
And all for a heart that hears,
every night,
a voice in stereo.
The picture in my mind blurs and contorts every now and then. Slight details changing, morphing slightly, so I'm not sure which memory is the truth. It's in the nature of remembering, or at least it is for me, I change my history every day.
It was a day last spring. Or was it summer? It was that in between time when the seasons are in disarray. From day to day, the possibility in that moment before you open your curtains of whether you would be confronted with bright skies or puddles along the street. Now I look back, that was what our relationship was like from the beginning. Always so full of possibility.
We were meant to be going
dragging fingers through air
through hair, through space
over railings, over pages.
keys dancing under nervous,
excited fingers, longing to
commit every word to print.
whispers and shivers are
haunting dreams now
instead of everyday sighs.
there's so many wishes
and smiles wrapped in a
myriad of paper kisses.
Let me sleep.
Stop sending your ghost
or the part of you that's mine
to stir my dreams and
drag me from the living.
I am alive, like you proposed.
Just like you said but not
because you draw me away every
single day you say you love me.
Hardy. Pah. She'd had to study it when she was seventeen, the poems about that wonderful, fictional place called Wessex. Wonderful. She'd never understood the romance other people saw in a sad old man writing poems about a landscape that only he could see. She placed it back on the shelf in front of her with possibly more force than was necessary.
That was four years ago now. School. Four quick, simple years of more books and music and art and dancing that she'd enjoyed so much that now they were gone. A university degree and maybe a Masters on the way; s
Fingers numbly, blindly holding paper
that's trying to fly away.
Navy blue stains on those few keys:
L and Y and I.
Raw, red lips held in submission by
teeth anxiously straining.
Thoughts like butterflies flitting,
escaping the pins stuck in them.
Empty hands aching to not
reach out.
And all for a heart that hears,
every night,
a voice in stereo.
The picture in my mind blurs and contorts every now and then. Slight details changing, morphing slightly, so I'm not sure which memory is the truth. It's in the nature of remembering, or at least it is for me, I change my history every day.
It was a day last spring. Or was it summer? It was that in between time when the seasons are in disarray. From day to day, the possibility in that moment before you open your curtains of whether you would be confronted with bright skies or puddles along the street. Now I look back, that was what our relationship was like from the beginning. Always so full of possibility.
We were meant to be going
dragging fingers through air
through hair, through space
over railings, over pages.
keys dancing under nervous,
excited fingers, longing to
commit every word to print.
whispers and shivers are
haunting dreams now
instead of everyday sighs.
there's so many wishes
and smiles wrapped in a
myriad of paper kisses.
Let me sleep.
Stop sending your ghost
or the part of you that's mine
to stir my dreams and
drag me from the living.
I am alive, like you proposed.
Just like you said but not
because you draw me away every
single day you say you love me.
Until the leaves fall. by sirenseranade11, literature
Literature
Until the leaves fall.
i. September is slow and stubborn and today we
are August lovers, sleeping on the hazy rays of
sunlight and dancing through the wet grass.
Days float by in dreams of yellow and green,
soft memories to tuck in between the pages
of books until winter rises again. We're safe
here, this girl and I, in a galaxy far from here
as the blinds cut the light across our bodies.
ii. She is
Seeing you for the first time was like being in one of those dreams you never want to wake up from.
But you always have to wake up, eventually.
Now that I'm back home in my solitude, it's like I never fell asleep in the first place. Memories, thoughts, dreams, they all start to fade.
With time. With age.
In the few moments between sleep and consciousness,
When you're lost in the unaware, safe within your own clueless mind.
I want to be lost in that in-between world with you.
But you always have to wake up, eventually.
I want to write down every clever pairing of words that has ever crashed against the inside of my skull.
I want to f
Watching him change. by sirenseranade11, literature
Literature
Watching him change.
He had grown-up hands and
little boy eyes and a way of
saying things that made even
the heartbroken want to love
again; I don't think he could
lie to save his life, but he told
me about things that couldn't
possibly be true, like worlds
full of happiness and love at
first sight; He knew nothing
about real things like math
or how people worked, but he
was the only person who would
just lay in the grass with me
and not worry about the world
spinning away without us.
And sometimes, as he's falling
asleep, I can see the echoes of that
boy I loved; but when he opens
his eyes and opens his mouth,
he's who he's decided to b
Mornings with you taste golden, like
that dawn we escaped together to
watch the sun rise from the asphalt
and burn its way down the road. And
we sat like sparrows above the dotted
yellow lines, waiting while the world
drove by and your face glowed hazel
and copper and hope. In the mornings,
when we share stories and wishes and
body heat, you feel more real to me
than anything I've ever read about,
than anything I've ever seen.
Mornings with you are hazy smiles and
soft eye lashes, like every morning I've
laid in your bed watching the dust ride
through the air on beams of light, not
having to do anything more than
Memories of the past.
Places and patterns.
Tasks and actions
with their own special
give and take.
Music...
Conversations
over late evening meals,
or night-caps.
More Music...
and a good joke between fine friends.
And then, a shift...
Nothing plays the same,
we are the same people...
...but in different roles,
...watching different faces,
...in a different world.
It's sultry, sticky, hot. It's the kind of August night where you just want to sit in front of a humming air conditioner and fall asleep. The night lights are on and the city's bright with cars and Friday partiers and more heat.
No fireflies. You don't see fireflies in the city.
You were seven and your brother, back from visiting his girlfriend out in nowhere or something, drove 150 miles, several gallons of gas, and two motels just to bring you a jar of fireflies. He fed them and gave them air and when he finally stumbled home, jet-lagged and hungover, he handed you the jar.
You headed for the old parking lot behind your hous
Humpty Dumpty What Have I Done by smidge17, literature
Literature
Humpty Dumpty What Have I Done
You, are an angel.
You, don't even know it.
But when I turn to you
And offer my pain and my heart
It all comes tumbling down
On old King Coel.
Then it's Humpty Dumpty
What have I done to you?
Oh it's Humpty Dumpty
What have I done to you?
You, are a comfort.
You, just keep on smiling.
But then I wake from the dream
To find its red riding
Has gone with the wolves
In the howling wind.
Then it's Humpty Dumpty
What what I done to you?
Oh it's Humpty Dumpty
What have I do to you?
The picture in my mind blurs and contorts every now and then. Slight details changing, morphing slightly, so I'm not sure which memory is the truth. It's in the nature of remembering, or at least it is for me, I change my history every day.
It was a day last spring. Or was it summer? It was that in between time when the seasons are in disarray. From day to day, the possibility in that moment before you open your curtains of whether you would be confronted with bright skies or puddles along the street. Now I look back, that was what our relationship was like from the beginning. Always so full of possibility.
We were meant to be going