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Literature Text
you wrote me love letters from the passenger seat,
pressing stars to my eyelids and hearts to my forehead.
you wrote me lies.
x
like the summer months, you never stick around long enough to make a lasting impression.
winter always takes over, cold
fingertips washing away all past evidence of the blistering friction once there.
(the only way I made it through was remembering that
you’re only another calendar away; that you’ll come back.
I don’t think I’ll make it through this time.)
o
I’d write you every word in the french-english dictionary if only one would spark a memory.
you seem unable to reminisce and incapable of nostalgia.
(really, I think they’re powers you passed onto me, increasing mine tenfold.)
x
you’re like something acidic, burning in my throat.
but all the way down, you’re smoldering the word
beautiful.
o
you held me close with trembling hands,
telling me how I was your living reincarnation of
rainbowsandfireworksandfairytales.
(I was the only one who noticed that they all just
explode in a shimmery mist of magic, forgotten
moments later.)
--
pressing stars to my eyelids and hearts to my forehead.
you wrote me lies.
x
like the summer months, you never stick around long enough to make a lasting impression.
winter always takes over, cold
fingertips washing away all past evidence of the blistering friction once there.
(the only way I made it through was remembering that
you’re only another calendar away; that you’ll come back.
I don’t think I’ll make it through this time.)
o
I’d write you every word in the french-english dictionary if only one would spark a memory.
you seem unable to reminisce and incapable of nostalgia.
(really, I think they’re powers you passed onto me, increasing mine tenfold.)
x
you’re like something acidic, burning in my throat.
but all the way down, you’re smoldering the word
beautiful.
o
you held me close with trembling hands,
telling me how I was your living reincarnation of
rainbowsandfireworksandfairytales.
(I was the only one who noticed that they all just
explode in a shimmery mist of magic, forgotten
moments later.)
--
Literature
crashing.
'think of yourself as a breath of air,' he tells me. 'compared to the overall atmosphere, you are tiny. insignificant.'
'but someone out there is breathing you in,' he continues. 'they're living off of you. you are the oxygen in their lungs, running through their veins and keeping them alive.'
i think that i'd be the polluted kind of air. the kind nobody wants. the kind that ends up killing people.
but i keep these thoughts inside.
.
'if i fell, would you catch me?' i ask, your fingers cold in mine.
'the crash is never as bad as they make it sound,' he says cryptically.
i take this to mean no.
.
'what do i remind you of?' you ask.
i
Literature
Shooting stars
'Today I decided to give up.'
'What do you mean, on what?'
'On you, on myself. I decided tying silk ribbons on dead branches doesn't bring them back to life and there's no use in trying to fill in the blanks to all the things you never say.'
'But I do care about you.'
'I know, and somewhere in a parallel world I care about you. We're rocks tossed on a surface that never breaks and I'm tired of being the sound effects to an unmade film. You won't understand this, and I don't expect you to, but the walls turned to dust the second I started believing, And I keep dragging my fingers across the dirt and telling myself I'll find what's mis
Literature
You and I,
we're a stunted little paragraph blowing in the wind,
full of maybes and we could have beens.
We're winter nights dancing through the sky,
dreaming of warmth and summer, burntskin sunscreen.
We're fruits hanging from a tree,
ripe with promise and fearing bitter seeds.
We're dripping photographs in darkrooms waiting to become something beautiful.
You and I, we're not fancy like fireworks. Sparks
are the little lights that dance between us when we smile.
Sparks are private things and they shine more prettily
when no one else can see them except you and me.
So when I write poetry about us,
it won't be about mountains and kisses
and
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I don't want to be forgotten.
Comments47
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wow.
this created a knot somewhere in my stomach.
you found the perfect balance between things you told and things you left open for the reader's mind to fill in their own story.
this created a knot somewhere in my stomach.
you found the perfect balance between things you told and things you left open for the reader's mind to fill in their own story.