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Literature Text
Curled at the foot of my bed,
butter-and-cream,
you rest softly snoring.
Chasing tales I've spun,
that you don't understand,
you just know that you like
when I read to you.
Maybe it's the late December sun
warming my tones up
like a hard-wood floor.
Maybe it's just how
the words tumble out in
an unfamiliar tongue.
These are your days,
drifting in cold like the afternoon snow.
You keep the drafts out
of my chest,
but you'll never really know, now.
butter-and-cream,
you rest softly snoring.
Chasing tales I've spun,
that you don't understand,
you just know that you like
when I read to you.
Maybe it's the late December sun
warming my tones up
like a hard-wood floor.
Maybe it's just how
the words tumble out in
an unfamiliar tongue.
These are your days,
drifting in cold like the afternoon snow.
You keep the drafts out
of my chest,
but you'll never really know, now.
Literature
and even so, you stayed
I taste rain on your lips
and I know you’ve been
writing poetry again.
I breathe into the touch
of your fingers
cascading in a soft scale
down the cage of bones
around my heartbeat.
you kiss me
knowing
the colors that drift
in my mind
like water beneath
all the bridges that were
burned for me
and you stay.
Literature
january
“did you know,”
she asks, sitting
beside me on the
sofa. the room is
sweltering, thick
like an ocean made
of air. a sea our
eyes can’t
see. summer
makes me feel like i
am breathing underwater,
like i'm suspended in
a world where hard hits
close in on me in gentle
waves, like i’m constantly
tumbling but i'll wash
up somewhere, eventually.
i do know. i don’t know
it yet, but this time
i'm landing with two feet
when the tide comes in.
(“did you know that today
was his birthday?”)
Literature
What Things Cost
What Things Cost the best things in life are the farthest thing from free; they cost everything i know this as i wake up, aching in the same position we eased back down to earth in; powering down, still entangled we do adjust, eventually, but not away and i focus just long enough into the dark, to realize that we still have a few hours left to sleep here, the rise and fall of your breath, against me slows time, fogs my ability to fear anything but its departure and i know the act of making memories like these only defers the pooling pain of the present deeper into the trench into the dark seafloor mix of distorted time and the lost lonely continents that, in their descent, left behind the very same spirit and power vacuums we’ve settled into i know a day is brewing below that will one day rise to strike me down, like the earth pounds a single raindrop into mist i know little, yet, of what things cost, little, but enough to not let go
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I love my dogs, and many times, they're the first to hear what I've written simply because they seem to like hearing me talk to them. They don't always make a captive audience, but they know I love them anyhow.
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So sweet.