first looks and suppositions, i hardly noticed | 1 |
the beginning, a blur of “hellos” and “nicetomeetyous” | 2 |
flew past in time and left us in the middle. | 3 |
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we disrupted the order of things, you and i. my theories on | 4 |
lightning, the way stars fight to shine | 5 |
in the middle of a storm, or the way hands fit | 6 |
between bone and skin. i thought I knew things, thought | 7 |
i spoke the language of the world, but every thing | 8 |
was foreign outside the reaches of your glow. | 9 |
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there was more to you, more to me | 10 |
more to us, as natural as spring | 11 |
when it leaves winter behind. i climbed | 12 |
into those eyes and made a home, not yet | 13 |
knowing how delicate they were, how much | 14 |
they saw or knew, or how they would sound. | 15 |
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hands lost in tangles, pulling you near | 16 |
to analyze every feature, every breath, | 17 |
every angle- a geometric shock, addition of pulse | 18 |
subtraction of platonic | 19 |
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i learned to bloom the flowers, plough | 20 |
that rough ground, as to tread ever so | 21 |
slightly until all that was left was the smooth | 22 |
notion of soil and supplication, ready for harvest | 23 |
i gathered you up, petal by petal, i brought | 24 |
you to my mouth, watering you with wet love | 25 |
as i tasted your colours, the scent of your secrets | 26 |
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a bruised fruit, left behind because it’s too soft | 27 |
but soft is what i wanted, the warmth and heat of | 28 |
dizzy conviction, forbidden desire, you opened | 29 |
up my veins and coloured them red, red mixed | 30 |
with red, lips pouring forth word blankets | 31 |
of safety when the rain comes. | 32 |
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but the middle turned to end and winter wants a place | 33 |
back in time. the petals i saved, stored up | 34 |
in the caverns of my glass chest, i scatter now | 35 |
down aisles and groves, and homes next door. | 36 |
i tell them to watch their steps, to see what lies | 37 |
in front of them but a blue wind has taken you now. | 38 |
a storm is coming from the distance, i hope | 39 |
it gives you life again, but for me it’s just a darkness. | 40 |
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with dry hands, claiming nothing but | 41 |
faint lines of colour residue, i turn to leave | 42 |
left only with theories growing vines over memory | 43 |
for it's all just postulation, jumbled communication | 44 |
of hello. | 45 |
nice to meet you. | 46 |