December 2011
18 posts
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time has softened since those night skies broke under the infinite weight of stars and the pressure of lips well known.
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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).’
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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?)
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necks of half-stripped trees are woven tightly, we expect winter has been fleeing, slipping out into the night, leaving us empty handed when morning arrives
the view from Monday appears staggering with few thunderstorms as we hung tattered coats, limp, behind closed doors; calking, still shivering from the howling winds of December’s yawn
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Everything is bright, and almost nothing could be spared from the harsh afternoon sunlight; soon we will shatter, too.
(all) words are
weighted; heavier
things than silence
of the sleepless
winter nights
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we strain our necks outside windows in hopes of seeing the remaining dandelion clocks scattering their seeds elsewhere
the wind is brisk in saying his goodbyes; we stutter and kiss and stumble clumsily home, guided by their brilliance, (the wordless stars)
even the fig trees have begun to stretch out their slender arms before morning comes home with dewy fingers
our feet dance in the dust too; weighted bones are whittled to almost nothing but breadcrumbs
even so, I shove my hands deep into empty pockets; the frost is at fault, for his half-whispered stories left me with gooseflesh
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for the stars are not our sole companions; your curves lay still and bare, caressed by indefinite shadows, counting all the times I have kissed the smallest corners of your smile
yet your voice wavered in desperation (uttering those last syllables from where we stood at a distance); caught amid the arrival of dusk and some few constellations peeking shyly between cold fingers
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We spend many a winter’s night trembling from the language of feeble hands, more so than each weighted silence wedged between us (there are old wounds in need of tending to); we have been carefully picking reddened winter berries for our sore teeth, squinting slightly like an eye of a needle having mended coat pockets with countless holes before December approaches
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A small boat is fashioned from newspapers three weeks old; though the corners are furled with faded rings where a cup of coffee hesitated smudging the ink. December has begun, I can only vanish for a handful of nights at a time before someone asks of my whereabouts. I barely stir out of bed (there is an uneasy stillness I fear most when winter suddenly appears without notice) as the lengthening...
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Tonight despite the cold, murmurs fill these hallways rather like gossamer webs trailing behind crisp Sunday mornings. Hands fidget with buttons of my green pea coat (maybe this is a wordless cry for help) swaying among the birches who tremble in the wake of billowing winds. The pouring rain is relentless, I am curled up reading novels honeycombed around the bed, leaving little room for...