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It was 5am, and the sun was only beginning to hit the windows as she said to me, I think I wrote a poem about you.
And I said, how does it go?
It goes like this, she said, and it was beautiful.
It was shooting stars, pulled wishbones and a thousand things unfulfilled, all blown birthday candles and dandelion clocks; the superstitions we embrace so that sometimes, for a few seconds, we're allowed to have any dream we want despite it all.
At the beginning it was the regret for things, said and unsaid, breaking into sharp pieces in our palms so we could never hold them; then it was a confession, and then a heartbreaking demand, only to know whether it could ever begin or be stopped; and the final line led me up into her eyes.
They were like the sea looks in all the magazines, the colour you buy expensive tickets to swim in for two weeks: clearwater oceans, the kind of world we know less about the bottom of than we do about the surface of our moon. She was too true and clear a sea, unrippled waters reflecting this kid who couldn't do wrong, and she thought it was me.
I thought to myself then, she must be blind. I thought, yes. I thought, let her be mine. But instead I said, It's amazing how sometimes I don't believe in love until I see the words it can make; or perhaps instead I just said Oh, and my memory has been brightened by time.
Then I kissed her there on the carpet while I forgot the words coming next, the dandelion seeds blowing by on winds outside, and us wrapping our fingers round bones; maybe I said them silently instead, against her lips; or maybe that was all there was to say.
When we came away from each other, there was only a small space between us and we left it there; as if it was some unspoken agreement that now we had started something too fragile to let slip away by drawing fully apart.
The two of us together, we were sweeping sensations. We were drawing guns and shooting stars dead-centre, obliterating constellations one by one - we were virgo, we were libra, we were the new age of space - whispering to one another Don't forget it.
Don't forget it, Charlie.
Don't forget it, Alice.
But I had to tell her in the end of that moment, even centimetres away from those those eyes like tidal waves rising and breaking over all my boundaries, It's too much about the better things.
She said, Huh? and feeling the ghost of it sweep against my lips made me realize how far-gone I was already.
I'm not worth words like that, I said. I make too many mistakes, I break too many plates, I can't sing worth a damn.
I didn't say you could, she answered.
I said, But it was stars and moons.
Everybody's worth a moon or two, she said, and believed it. I got mad then, mad inside, mostly because I was confused but also because I was scared of the vows I might make to her; they were too bright, too promising, and I thought I could be blinded by them.
I can't, I said, and a speech stumbled out after; When I have love, it only makes me unhappy in the end. I never want for anything else. All I want is to talk like a story, because it feels so perfect it must be written, and yet everyone else is too busy being like movies - and so maybe it's too much to ask, and I have to tell you that. Maybe my world is boring, with all plain paper and no glossy magazine pages, but I can't help but live there so you need to know I do.
Right now is a love-story, she said. Are you going to waste it by skipping to the end? It's too soon yet, and there are so many words in between.
Words can hurt, I remember saying, and I almost laughed even then at the childish sound of them, and went on; It's too hard to let someone love me when I don't even like myself.
Everybody talks about having to learn how to love yourself before you can be happy, but isn't it okay just to be loved? I think, she said, I could be happy with depending on you, if you depended on me.
Just like that, I was falling down on the carpet and it's like we were caught in paper, pressed up against each other while our fingers stroked spines with absent minds, ending worlds and starting futures between our eyes and skin - all at once it was a fairy-tale ending and then it was the part after a book says The End, where you take a moment to yourself to think of how the words might have went on. Maybe it wasn't worth anything the next week, the next year, or ten years after, but I'm telling you this:
It was after 5am, and the sun was high above the windows as I said to her, I think I will write about you.
And Charlie said, how will it go?
It goes like this, I said, and it was beautiful.
And I said, how does it go?
It goes like this, she said, and it was beautiful.
It was shooting stars, pulled wishbones and a thousand things unfulfilled, all blown birthday candles and dandelion clocks; the superstitions we embrace so that sometimes, for a few seconds, we're allowed to have any dream we want despite it all.
At the beginning it was the regret for things, said and unsaid, breaking into sharp pieces in our palms so we could never hold them; then it was a confession, and then a heartbreaking demand, only to know whether it could ever begin or be stopped; and the final line led me up into her eyes.
They were like the sea looks in all the magazines, the colour you buy expensive tickets to swim in for two weeks: clearwater oceans, the kind of world we know less about the bottom of than we do about the surface of our moon. She was too true and clear a sea, unrippled waters reflecting this kid who couldn't do wrong, and she thought it was me.
I thought to myself then, she must be blind. I thought, yes. I thought, let her be mine. But instead I said, It's amazing how sometimes I don't believe in love until I see the words it can make; or perhaps instead I just said Oh, and my memory has been brightened by time.
Then I kissed her there on the carpet while I forgot the words coming next, the dandelion seeds blowing by on winds outside, and us wrapping our fingers round bones; maybe I said them silently instead, against her lips; or maybe that was all there was to say.
When we came away from each other, there was only a small space between us and we left it there; as if it was some unspoken agreement that now we had started something too fragile to let slip away by drawing fully apart.
The two of us together, we were sweeping sensations. We were drawing guns and shooting stars dead-centre, obliterating constellations one by one - we were virgo, we were libra, we were the new age of space - whispering to one another Don't forget it.
Don't forget it, Charlie.
Don't forget it, Alice.
But I had to tell her in the end of that moment, even centimetres away from those those eyes like tidal waves rising and breaking over all my boundaries, It's too much about the better things.
She said, Huh? and feeling the ghost of it sweep against my lips made me realize how far-gone I was already.
I'm not worth words like that, I said. I make too many mistakes, I break too many plates, I can't sing worth a damn.
I didn't say you could, she answered.
I said, But it was stars and moons.
Everybody's worth a moon or two, she said, and believed it. I got mad then, mad inside, mostly because I was confused but also because I was scared of the vows I might make to her; they were too bright, too promising, and I thought I could be blinded by them.
I can't, I said, and a speech stumbled out after; When I have love, it only makes me unhappy in the end. I never want for anything else. All I want is to talk like a story, because it feels so perfect it must be written, and yet everyone else is too busy being like movies - and so maybe it's too much to ask, and I have to tell you that. Maybe my world is boring, with all plain paper and no glossy magazine pages, but I can't help but live there so you need to know I do.
Right now is a love-story, she said. Are you going to waste it by skipping to the end? It's too soon yet, and there are so many words in between.
Words can hurt, I remember saying, and I almost laughed even then at the childish sound of them, and went on; It's too hard to let someone love me when I don't even like myself.
Everybody talks about having to learn how to love yourself before you can be happy, but isn't it okay just to be loved? I think, she said, I could be happy with depending on you, if you depended on me.
Just like that, I was falling down on the carpet and it's like we were caught in paper, pressed up against each other while our fingers stroked spines with absent minds, ending worlds and starting futures between our eyes and skin - all at once it was a fairy-tale ending and then it was the part after a book says The End, where you take a moment to yourself to think of how the words might have went on. Maybe it wasn't worth anything the next week, the next year, or ten years after, but I'm telling you this:
It was after 5am, and the sun was high above the windows as I said to her, I think I will write about you.
And Charlie said, how will it go?
It goes like this, I said, and it was beautiful.
Literature
Dreamers
She reminds me that she's a dreamer
Her right hand delicately grips a pencil
as she's working equations on a TI-89 with her left
She looks up at me and smiles,
and there are stars, meteors,
spanning across the cosmos of her expression
her countenance reminds me to look up at the chalkboard
that's attempting to teach me how
to make verses sing from pages in a plain 8 by 11 notebook
and I am only armed with
a .7 pencil and a purple pen,
stolen from my older sister's pencil pouch
My hands are inches away from hers
from the desks side by side
like cars parallel parked on a side road
her equations confuse me
until she flips the
Literature
Scales Of Life
01010010 01001001 01010011 01000101 - We begin our quest on the scales of life
I- The newborn wolf cub: The first emotion reflected in his tired eyes is that of mystery; a
curious devotion to the enigma of the moonbeams that cut through the trees, reflecting in
his inexperienced gaze. He calls out to the blinding light, beckons for its shadowed silence,
and eventually finds comfort in the embrace of mother's love. In that moment, he hears no
cruel sound his purity can't contest. He shuts
out the light as he slowly drifts away to rest. // Perfection was a value whose worth /
Literature
Losing
The thing is, I lose everything.
I've misplaced all the
things I own at least twice.
No thing is safe
from disappearing,
it all slips between the threads
rough stitched fabric
of my universe.
A few weeks ago,
a pair of rose colored
rabbit-shaped earrings
went missing.
They must have scampered away
from my bedside table
as I slept.
and yesterday too my class ring,
with dragon insignia
carved into its metal side,
lost so many times
I've just stopped looking.
It always turns up again
like a hungry cat.
Long ago I bid farewell
to a book of poetry
by Billy Collins,
each page dressed
in a suit of marginalia
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my cyan saltwater.
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summersometimes i used to think of what it would be like
to be held by you
or touched
by you
the day was getting tired and i was too
my fingers were stiff and turning purple
yours were warm and pink and i thought
itd be nice to warm up
with our hands intertwined
passive romantic gestures
wherein petty jealousy doesn't interfere
we could link together
i remember lying in quiet cold with you
how soft you were
how we all breathed together
it was soothing and perfect
i think i could've done more
made something but then
couldn't we all
make something out of assumed nothing
be creators of love
go read this by *dirked, it's lovely.
--
& any other kind readers, please let me know your thoughts. i'm looking for general feedback and crit, particularly on my style and structure.
--
ask for critique, give a critique!
Passivitymy teeth are numb from trying
to find words to describe you
our breath is smoke &
our hands are death.
1/2 a pack a day,
we're catching up to our grandparents--
but we have our own wars &
we discuss them casually over---
steam from our bodies, our pore
today is only a five-letter-wordi refuse to be afraid to breathe anymore.
i'll take your scent in and never breathe it out, but everyone is so gullible; they think i dream when i'm really just thinking of ways to make you real. they believe me when i say that God's sense of humor was always twisted and dark.
because they're people; they'll believe anything.
i prattle on and on with words that don't need to be said, that hardly ever make sense.
but you read on. because you know somewhere between the lines i've hidden your name for the seraphs to see.
it won't take much to stop draining me.
the minute you stop, so will i. peace misses you too. give back my breaths and i
And your love is some dust in an old man's coughyou lull me into your weakness
i get degraded
all the red leaves in the world
alongside half frozen trees
look on at the autumn sun
behold the tempest
write me into pink petals
& i am unscented
glued to ground at the station
(and what calm
could have been mine
here's something i gave feedback on: [ link ]
there's a whole folder of things that you can help improve with your comments, but i thumbed a few just because.
pay it forward.
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falling in love with your words has never struck me so
tethered & falling
&falling
tethered & falling
&falling