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Literature Text
I take a step
to press my chest
against your back
and bury my nose
into your hair
to smell
the flowers that
rested there.
I glide your hair
out of the way
to reveal
your neck,
naked and bare,
where i touch
my lips,
ever so softly;
exhaling
a breath
I didn’t know
I was holding.
I wrap my arms
around your waist,
drawing you in
for another taste;
feeling your
skin pressed
against mine,
I inhale
and exhale
in time
with you.
to press my chest
against your back
and bury my nose
into your hair
to smell
the flowers that
rested there.
I glide your hair
out of the way
to reveal
your neck,
naked and bare,
where i touch
my lips,
ever so softly;
exhaling
a breath
I didn’t know
I was holding.
I wrap my arms
around your waist,
drawing you in
for another taste;
feeling your
skin pressed
against mine,
I inhale
and exhale
in time
with you.
Literature
lonely is one letter
there were dead birds and fragile things hanging on the clothesline. you liked to look at them because it made you feel more secure; less like scraps of fabric and snips or newspapers tied loosely with dental floss. so you hung ribcages and tea cups and our love on the clothesline because fragile things made you feel less alone.
"I'm not afraid of dying; I'm afraid of leaving." you whispered to the stars. the air grew heavy. "I don't like the idea that this is all there is, because there's so much more I want to be. I want to be beautiful."
I was always more afraid of living, because living meant that there were no excuses. I agreed, though
Literature
rebound
knowing
I'm a fool
doesn't
make me
want you
less
Literature
Unbutton
I declared love dead.
There was a ceremony, and I did the obituary.
"Dear love. I told you so."
Then the burial of an empty gesture, broken
promises integrating with the earth.
I visited the grave, let my fingers run
along the unmarked stone. I would sit at the TV at night,
awash in a sea of detergent and other peoples' wives,
forgetting everything about this. One day I just woke up cold.
And it was fine.
I wrote my acceptance on the inside of my door.
Life is full as it is. Full of spoons and dirt and ways to slowly dig.
Full of reflections on what passes and what does not.
Curled up in itself, a wad of dirty bills. Life is
blu
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Comments43
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Beautiful. Short, simple, wonderful flow. So tender and romantic.