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Literature Text
I.
I shrug into Harry's shirt
underneath my autumn scarf--
cologne on the cuffs bringing
color as I close my eyes,
the brown of his hair,
bleeding-heart lips,
laughter, pine green.
Fingers on marbled buttons
smooth as the cream
he puts in his chai.
II.
I think of him like rain on a Sunday,
cozy drizzle,
a slow breath uttered in calm,
eyes shut to listen,
he is peace,
comfort,
stability in grayer moments.
III.
He is the space in my empty bed
and
I ache for him the way
I crave prayer and
the feel of a rosary.
I shrug into Harry's shirt
underneath my autumn scarf--
cologne on the cuffs bringing
color as I close my eyes,
the brown of his hair,
bleeding-heart lips,
laughter, pine green.
Fingers on marbled buttons
smooth as the cream
he puts in his chai.
II.
I think of him like rain on a Sunday,
cozy drizzle,
a slow breath uttered in calm,
eyes shut to listen,
he is peace,
comfort,
stability in grayer moments.
III.
He is the space in my empty bed
and
I ache for him the way
I crave prayer and
the feel of a rosary.
Literature
sweaterse
when you've a love
in repose,
all quiets
are woven together.
all worries and
worships and
weathering
kept, cared,
covered.
every summer
warms, every winter
draws closer.
and the silences
sweeter than
heaven.
Literature
grow
To the dandelion,
In this part of the world,
the heart of July is frigid.
Frost renders the clay-earth firm as concrete
while gusts from the snowies
raze any hope of warmth.
Things do not thrive here,
yet this is where fate cast your seed
and you, unwillingly, grew your roots,
and became mangled
by what should have nurtured.
But spoiler alert:
survival is no pretty thing.
You are no spring tulip,
no summer orchid,
no autumn rose.
Though it shames you now,
the day will come
where you are proud
of having grown
out of a crack in pavement.
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
Suggested Collections
Three poems a little too small to stand on their own.
Comments22
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Ahhh! I love the outward simplicity of these verses, and the well-chosen images...I can feel it!