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Literature
wander.lust
packed up my hometown in a suitcase
and travelled down backwards roads,
I find myself in Paris, in Rome; vaulted
archways, concrete sprawl, I press on
as you press up against my heels with
those kisses of yours, saying “stay” and
“run” all at once. in the forest glades of
deep night, every cityscape looks like
you, arms outstretched reaching, arms
outstretched pushing. haunting hotel
bars in daytime hours, seeking solace
in the colosseums where good men
fought each other with all the violence
of love, I imagine us in the pits of war
and watch those gilded teeth graze
a smile as we stand armoured in gold
and gre
Literature
softly, silently.
you always cried in
rose-coloured
paint and i screamed
in ink - the trickles
dripping off my
numb fingers when
your hand clenched mine:
a chokehold
of nothing. the
swallows sung for us
last summer, before our
veins turned to
dust and buried themselves
under autumn leaves. we
haven't spoken since
then and I'm forgetting that your
skeleton is in the back of
my closet. your
ghosts still haunt my heart
sometimes - but
someday, they'll follow
the swallows
and
fly away.
( and the birds won't ever sing for us again,
but somehow the silence is soothing.)
Literature
here are my words
i used to dream whole cityscapes and skylines,
ocean cities and coves washed over with waves,
terrifying, brilliant, unable to touch me.
i used to be able to talk to trees,
to speak in palms and eyes-closed silences
and the sure roughness of bark under my fingernails.
i used to be able to sing
and believe that believing made me better,
believe that joy sounds bright and crescendos.
i used to be someone who tripped on her words,
spilled out in sloppy sentences and sentiments,
used to be someone who could 'sit at a typewriter and bleed'
and in bleeding turn the hurt beautiful.
i used to close my eyes and fall into feeling,
trace the right word
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Comments6
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beautiful wordplay here, love.