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your heart is a cockle shell and i work my hands into pleats of calcium carbonate until i am covered in pink dust and you're nothing but smooth.
remember, you whisper. to nothing, or the sea, or the vastness of being. or maybe just me standing alone in the kitchen.
i'm remembering your gray sweater, the way your hands could circle around your wrists, the way yours bones looked like topographical maps in lamplight. i'm remembering you cooking pasta over the stove and asking me why i was so goddamn useful. because it's hard to leave people like that.
you were always so afraid of being forgotten. of being cast out like fishing lines at night, thin thread across a deepening ocean. you thought earthquakes had the power to swallow you up.
but i'm remembering. i'm remembering you asking me not to follow, not to call, not to whisper your name into dead phone lines at night because you knew i was a poet and poets were prone to do those sorts of things.
remember, you whisper. to nothing, or the sea, or the vastness of being. or maybe just me standing alone in the kitchen.
i'm remembering your gray sweater, the way your hands could circle around your wrists, the way yours bones looked like topographical maps in lamplight. i'm remembering you cooking pasta over the stove and asking me why i was so goddamn useful. because it's hard to leave people like that.
you were always so afraid of being forgotten. of being cast out like fishing lines at night, thin thread across a deepening ocean. you thought earthquakes had the power to swallow you up.
but i'm remembering. i'm remembering you asking me not to follow, not to call, not to whisper your name into dead phone lines at night because you knew i was a poet and poets were prone to do those sorts of things.
Literature
Everyday wears me down
A year ago today I left you sitting on the street looking up at the sky with your black eyes, hands pooled in your lap. Your pianist's fingers still for once. I had small hands and I used to envy how your fingers bridged octaves so damn easily.
You said, 'It's going to rain.'
And I walked away.
.
The day before I left, I wrote you a song.
.
I don't think you understand. Jason. David. Whoever you want to be today.
How your hands snag on my hair and the way
you make me smile even when I'm about to fall apart
Last winter I cradled my heart ─
.
I never finished. It was cold and quiet in my room. Outside the sun blazed down.
Literature
shatterglass.
Last summer we watched the moon swallow the sun and you told me violence was romantic. It was 12 in the afternoon but the sky was midnight blue, and as you spoke your hand clenched into claws around my waist. I reached down to hold your wrist but you dropped your hand to your side before I could touch you.
.
I used to think it was impossible to love someone and never really know them, but you took all those illusions when you took my hand. Sometimes we sat opposite each other in starbucks and you faded away, just staring into the sky, your soul stolen to some distant place. Even when you were next to me I could feel the space between us lik
Literature
someone, something
"someone to take it away," she says. "all of it. to bruise the sickness, to pour it all down the drain, turn on the tap and fill me up again. like a child with knowledge, like a balloon with air."
"I've gotten used to it, really." she says. "the way people come into your life and then just vanish. it's just a fucking cycle. the same ache, just different people. it's like being in an airport, watching people come and go all the time. but there's someone who takes that shit so far away from my life that life doesn't even feel real anymore. someone who takes away not just the concept and fear of a lover leaving, but all the memories attached to
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...oooohhh...
Shivers down the spine
Beautiful imagery. Some of it familiar to myself...
blessings
Shivers down the spine
Beautiful imagery. Some of it familiar to myself...
blessings