March 2012
1 post
a swarm of
dust mites
linger, dancing
swiftly in circles
above our heads
—
touching only
where the moon
poked through
slits of pine cones
left to dry on the
windowsill
—
here, each shadow
tells a story, originating
from a dim lightbulb in
the corridor, a heaviness
that cannot go unnoticed
February 2012
21 posts
“I think people who vibrate at the same frequency, vibrate toward each other....”
– Erykah Badu (via childrenslaughter)
“The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so...”
– Jack Kerouac (via mirroir)
“Time is not a stream flowing equably, constantly, from the beginning of all...”
– James Bradley, Wrack (via technicoloring)
how do we
shift so easily
like shadows
caught sprawled
on the kitchen
floor?
where do limbs
end and the parts
of ourselves finally
exposed and naked
first touch when
making love?
(I lay still and
silent to your
hands drawing
a rough map of
my bones)
you remind me of the first bite taken from a mandarin, sweet and pulp-like and tender are your lips always fleeting, never a wayside, never grazing solely where my collarbone dips, but rather any place you name as a curve forgotten
“Blot out the moon, pull down the stars. Love in the dark, for we are the dark.”
– Jean Rhys, from Wide Sargasso Sea
“If there is a place where this is the language may
It be my country”
– W. S. Merwin, from “The Cold Before the Moonrise” in Migration (via proustitute)
1 tag
how we sleep.
the night is too cold, we find ourselves sliding under a wine red comforter
(your arms) wrap around my body like a tightly wound clock
laying wordlessly in nothing more than underwear, a lullaby hums each rise and fall of our hollow chests
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In the coming weeks, we will be cartographers charting every ridge, every crevasse, every sigh that falls from our crescent shape lips.
“Think of nothings. Think of the wind.”
– Truman Capote (via palpability)
the ground
moans beneath
us
as the moon (slightly
embarrassed)—
turns away at the
sight of our raw
entanglement
it is quiet,
the way he
sleeps
“A murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
night unfolds and...”
– Octavio Paz, As One Listens to the Rain (via sleepinginthesnow)
1 tag
We drove around town looking for a pool hall on Friday’s midnight. Someone offered me a beer I took sheepishly in the parking lot. The radio played a country love song when you pulled me into a kiss, your friends in the back singing loudly as our lips met again & again. The hours scattered. You wanted to go home. We stumbled to your room with no door. It was awkward at first, I changed...
1 tag
we crave unusual words like freshly picked raspberries found hiding in a thicket nest; but February has settled and we are left to scrape at what remains unsaid from our tongues
his lips were of salt and rust, maybe it is how love tastes after all this time it’s different we say as my fingers unbutton his shirt and I feel him fumbling to pull my jeans down below the waist—are we...
1 tag
bedsheets wrapped around us carelessly, kissing until our mouths begin to ache and we’re pulling at the rest of our clothes and my body lies as an impression of his from underneath
yet the weight should feel heavy in pure darkness, where every shadow grows longer; but for tonight I do not let go (I want to be a part of him that lingers between phases of the moon)
“I have to tell you,
there are times when
the sun strikes me
like a gong,
and...”
– Dorothea Grossman, I have to tell you
1 tag
I don’t care for the ocean trenches folded into your sweater or the way it clings to your shoulders closely—
You laugh, I shake my head because you stand there in front of me with a foolish grin; I see your lips (and think of how they move along mine)
January 2012
20 posts
a pinprick of longing peers among the trees, (the wind no longer whispers her sadness of Winter departing)
bone-weary, midnight crawls back into bed, trailing a hollow glow behind him
minutes pass coldly, slipping into a stranger’s rough palms like pocket change
February remains a mere baby’s breath away, giving us enough time to gather all the singed-tip matches we struck...
1 tag
When Fall gave way to Winter, the murmuring pines were hopeful to see her face— she’s been in hiding or in mourning, the bed sheets are unsure of which
(her absence is not unnoticed, it’s all the stars can do but ache & shiver, shaking out the dirt from their hair)
1 tag
how I envy dust caught in
creases of your eyes & a
cotton shirt nipping at the
nape of your neck (here you
take a glass to your full lips for
a drink) I can see these things are
closer to you without the ability to
feel, yet know every movement
of your mouth
“I felt it shelter to speak to you.”
– Emily Dickinson, from Letters of Emily Dickinson, January 1878, edited by Thomas Johnson
“And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning...”
– T.S. Eliot, excerpt from The Waste Land
“The most significant conversations of our lives occur in silence.”
– Simon Van Booy, Love Begins in Winter: Five Stories
1 tag
We bend to the
friction of bones
along bones along
bones
Of words, we
expect too much
amid the cracks of
spines broken
We live like shadows
of the overhanging
branches—the few
who dare to trespass
onto a bedroom floor
1 tag
2 tags
Morning creeps in slowly, clandestine, slipping through the mouth of a gaping window
The cedar trees barely stir from deep slumber; the sun has yet to throw his first ray
We linger among the coming and going of days for far too long in silence
Have we begun to nurture the other words for love? (these should be spoken gingerly, like sowing seedlings of baby’s breath in early spring)
2 tags
January is stretched thinly, thumbing through breadcrumb poems piled like dirty sheets tossed into a corner on a rainy night
The moon does not belong to us, this is a fault for believing so; our mouths went dry as bones, counting the years passing by
I am running farther behind each day: I try to remember, I try to forget the creeping hours sewn onto ragged hems of a star —(for love)
Between bitter howls and bone-chilling cries, the aged trees shake out dust from Orion having snagged onto their sleeves during the night.
We are too vulnerable. I have felt your sighs, the slightest pressure of your lips leave me shivering—barren. You stroked my cheek as though I were a fading memory soon to vanish before your eyes.
All nerves are aflame, the aches persist; every hollowed...
“No matter what they wish for, no matter how far they go, people can never be...”
– Haruki Murakami, ‘Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman: 24 Stories’
1 tag
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The warmth I felt around me was not a wool blanket, but arms and hands and fingers and small kisses pressed into the back of my neck. Pause. Words were treated as wispy fronds. We shifted carefully, from under us our bones groaned and creaked like ships out at sea.
2 tags
January.
Before the sun began his chores beating dust out of a favorite throw-rug, before the first shadow branched spindly across walls, the days were cut-outs, and the nights ever endless.
1 tag
“Something that is yours forever is never precious.”
– Chaim Potok, from “My Name is Asher Lev”
I think I have forgotten what it’s like to fall for someone in flesh and blood.
2 tags
The moon taunts us, perched slightly above my right shoulder like a pale ghost. In her presence, we are not welcomed, in her darkness, we trail quietly until she falls asleep. These have been our nights, dear Columba; and I fear if we leave too soon…we will lose what little hope holds us here.
“Words, like selves, are worth it.”
–
Lidia Yuknavitch, from “The Chronology of Water”
(via weissewiese)
December 2011
18 posts
1 tag
time has softened since those night skies broke under the infinite weight of stars and the pressure of lips well known.
1 tag
it’s easy to catch yourself in the midst of noise, colors, and movement—yet feel as though no one can hear you.
Into a wordless night, her dreams were wisps of fears she yet dared to say aloud; ‘please, let me forget why I am still breathing (alone).’
1 tag
Here, the night is silent, the elm trees sleep with frost-covered blankets up to their necks—and (we) are found in slits of moonlight among their branches.
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Listen closely to the melancholy of winter; the trees continue to sob quietly into their pillows, the weeping is too heavy—such a sadness is spoken in a language older than words.
You lived a wayside from yourself for so long, you have forgotten the names of simple things; a poem—winter—sharp—your hands grappled at words having fled from your palms.
(how did this happen?)
1 tag
