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Literature
lacunae of longing, loftiness of words
inked and reaching, this is my remembrall flesh
and if we were to never speak again
you'll find the rest of my bones in the graveyard eaten by a dream
i hear knives in the wind and earth inside me
survival is a balancing act-
a selection of extrasensory impulses
a fracture in late august
a week of kisses
sunday skeletons
and i am crying out for time not yet lost
when stars collapse,
the sunshine shaking heart of the unive
Literature
Both Hands
we're in a room without a door
and i'm beyond your peripheral vision
back back back in the dark of your mind
and i have earned my disillusionment
writing in the margins of my mind
just trying to still my heart
and somewhere in my chest
down beneath the impossible pain of our history
blooms the reflection of my surprise
i think this, this is good enough
'cause i know there is strength
with my arms around your chest
and my little pink heart
it flashes like a neon sign
welcome to:
the true story of what was
Literature
Longing
Missing you
is forsaking
the cooler side of the pillow
for the side that remembers
the impression of your cheek
and the soft smell of your hair.
It's reveling
in the butterfly thrill
of your gentle embrace,
but aching to close
the Rubin-vase distance
that separates us.
It's the difference between
the sound of your silver Corolla
as you pull to a stop
in my cul-de-sac
and the way it sounds
when you leave.
It's weaving "I love you"
into every word,
every touch,
every song,
short of actually saying it.
But the thing is,
I don't know
how much longer I can go
without saying it.
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Comments8
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very enjoyable reading