we don't sound like a whisper. by paperheartsyndrome, literature
Literature
we don't sound like a whisper.
The sun never sets over the water, but you still take me there whenever dusk comes to meet the horizon. We sit out on the rocks with me tucked tight against your chest, while you count stars like other people count blessings, but we're only half lucky with all these city lights ruining your chances. I know you're tired, love, but I'm terrified. I'm running out of ways to stop myself from telling you I miss you because twenty four hours isn't a long time to be separated and I'm really just more afraid of what you're doing when I'm not there -- and of what you're thinking when I am. I've been burnt enough times before to learn that loving with
Waiting for a coach
and four
that never came,
she realized
a ball gown
won't bloom
out of sackloth;
glass slippers
are not dependable
and mice
are best left
to their own devices.
Midnight was never a friend,
and under that suit
he is the same as any other
man.
maybe you never belonged to me by paperheartsyndrome, literature
Literature
maybe you never belonged to me
I can still feel the weight of your lips on the curve of my collarbone. Sometimes, it feels paralyzing, crushing, absolute. Sometimes, it feels like home. Like everything.
I once heard that when you can't fall asleep it means you're awake in someone else's dream. I wonder which one of us was dreaming that night, because everything was too quiet, too easy, too perfect. You used to fall asleep next to me, your body curled against mine. It's a warmth that's not easy to forget. A hidden smile tucked into pillows and sheets. It's easy to think these things will last forever when you're tangled up together. For me, the strings of my life will alwa
When I grow old
she said
I will be the crazy cat lady
all the neighbors talk about.
I will dwell
in a house of sycamore
and live off taffy and gin,
and paint my ceilings yellow.
I will dangle carrots
off the clothesline
and only bathe on Sundays.
I will keep 47 cats
(or maybe 63)
and give them names
like Cumberbund and Camembert
and let them sleep in the kitchen sink
where they can dream of midnight raids
on the pantry-
of sardines poached in pepper sauce
and mocking bird and beetle pie
and we will fish off the crumbling pier.
I will tie bells to their tails
to warn the birds
they are invited for a meal
and watch them
How did you put on your skin
this morning?
Did your lover
zip up your pale flesh
from behind
or did you belt it
casually under your dress?
Did you unfold it lovingly
from the wardrobe,
the sachet of Monday
clinging to the threads;
or model it for your mirror -
the hide and seek
of pink and ivory
running the length of limbs
as if asking to be smoothed
and ironed?
And at the end of the day
did you peel it down
and watch it drop
to the floor
or slip it under the door,
hoping it would remember
the shape and feel
of how life left you?
you bring me to my knees, but i don't mean praying by ChloroformBoy, literature
Literature
you bring me to my knees, but i don't mean praying
if i worship your
smuggled beauty
will you reward
me with a kiss?
i will change my religion
to devote & cherish you-
the apple of my eye,
my forbidden fruit-
banished from paradise
all for one
bite
all for one
taste
of your holy
purefection
and (i ask you) in prayer,
is exile worth your flavour,
its velvet skin, velvet sin?
i confess:
i would set heaven on fire
for but a lick of your peel.
i'll keep you like a secret. by paperheartsyndrome, literature
Literature
i'll keep you like a secret.
There are a lot of things I can't tell you.
Not because I'm keeping secrets locked behind my teeth or because I'm afraid I'll say something you don't want to hear. This isn't like the last time or the time before. It's simply because I'll never have the exact right words to explain all the ways you make my heart rise and expand and skip a beat.
There aren't enough words to describe how quickly the blood rushes through my veins when we kiss and I'm on tiptoes to reach your lips and your hand is cupping my face, brushing your thumb across my cheekbone and I feel completely at home.
And they haven't even invented a way to portray how I feel w
she liked her men
spare and sparse
lean of words
without flowers in their hands
their shirt sleeves rolled up
to show the world
how hard they lived,
their legs tucked into boots
as thick and dark as calluses
she liked them sprawled
elbows on the table
at dinner
their forks demanding her attention
spearing the meat
like clean kill
chewing with the gusto
of young rams
their teeth reminding her
of how devouring was
a holy act
and she would dream
of those hands
curious beasts of prey
skin freckled with the grit of stars
and gravel from wrong turns
making paths across her blouse
pulling her skirt up
to meet their quest
I forgot how jealousy
looked on you -
a brooch of many colors
pinned to her dress
just above the breasts,
or a thin bright ribbon
trailing off a straw hat.
and how it smelled -
too much perfume in a
tiny space or
lemons bursting off the branches
to bloom at her feet.
and how it sounded
like too much music
for one room to hold,
so it had to be shared
with a stranger
who wore candlelight
beautifully.
I forgot
how it sat on your tongue -
a sharp insect
shedding its wings,
and leaving me
to dream of her.