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Come home.“I didn’t want to imagine what it would be like not to have you again - not to have you within arm’s reach, not being able to “pass the remote” to you, let alone lay beside. I realise now, how many lovers take advantage of the sound each other’s hearts make. The memory of your heart beat is delicate, lying vaguely under the tears I have been fighting against. My days consist only of self-induced stirring, in hope that I will wake up from this dream - this false reality – and fall into your arms again, almost as fast and as hard as the plane that took you away. But I will wake tomorrow as I did this morning, hoping, regretful. Regretful that I did not stop you or come with you, and hopeful that (today) you will show up on my door step with nothing in your hands besides my waist, stealing away the ends of my sentences with sweet, gentle kisses. Today was not the day, but tomorrow will be. One day, I am sure of, there will be a tomorrow where you
Special Sewing NeedleI smell your skin on the vacant pillow beside me
And imitate your warmth
with the sweater you left behind.
And with thread
the same shade of blue as your eyes,
I’ve sewn myself together but;
the seams are beginning tear
and the nights are getting longer
and I am praying for a special stitching needle
to come and patch me up again,
another time round.
That very last moon of February,
hung over us as
I learned your anatomy
And you learned mine.
You told me nothing was close to being as beautiful
as the way my hair swept off my shoulders
and then you left.
and I cut my hair
and slept through March,
kissed May farewell;
and now, here I am.
It is now that the moon makes me think of you and
that warm, February night and
It is now,
that my soul aches
for your awaited return;
But it is now,
that I am thread
and you are that special stitching needle,
And without you,
I cannot sew together
the broken seams
of my heart
I doYou need not ask me, my love, I already do.
love the way you hum me to sleep and
how you whisper me sweet dreams
I do love the way you tell me you love me once I’ve met my slumber.
I do love the way you read to me and
how your eyebrows shift when you are puzzled.
I do love how you prove me wrong and then
kiss me once or twice.
I cannot tell you of how much there is that
love about you
But above all else;
I love the promise you made me
to one day,
tell you that,
a/g/a/i/nHe moved his lips across
the columns of her ribcage
The tips of his fingers drew scribbles
on her body, an unblemished canvas;
Connecting lines between the freckles on her back that
Meant more to him than the
Constellations of the stars and
the alignment of the moon.
did not light up the night sky
Nor did they change the oceans tides
But there was a certain gravitational pull in them
that brought him back time and time
a g a i n.
He strained to place his ear
Upon her chest
And each time she would feel
More averse than the last,
In fear that he would learn how it does not beat as it should;
that he would stumble upon the discovery of how it had once been
broken beyond repair.
The columns of her ribcage succumbed to the
sweet taste of his lips
and fell down.
And the freckles on her back aligned perfectly
with the assemblages of stars in his sky.
But her heart ,
had been torn into pieces,
Broken beyond repair;
Number one killed his five year old son son.He got into his car and he drove off
And I saw him looking back into his rear-view mirror,
Looking back at a woman crying into her hands.
Who cried into her hands 20 years ago;
when she realised she’d fallen for a boy who was no good for her.
And today she cries again. A no-good man dragged his suitcase down the porch
to the back of the old, red Chevy truck they had first made love in.
And the situation felt all too familiar, as though it had happened all before,
And it had.
Two summers ago, number Eight took off,
Leaving behind a woman whose eyes cried for too many no-good men
And the summer after that, it was we who abandoned number Nine,
casting away a man who cursed and threw all sorts of rusty garden tools
which clinked and clashed against her bumper bar.
I could call them by their names but none of them stuck around long enough
to have even learned mine. And I bit my tongue each time my vacant ears heard;
And I’d tip my hat to them, as if th
Counting stars“You left the smell of lumber
And the taste of peppermint lips,
an empty fridge,
an empty bed.
I hungry for your body and dream
of entirety, of allness, but;
You left subtle footsteps
on the stale floor of my apartment;
And of my heart.
Taking with you alacrity and
lack of anything.
You bound me with
A life time of famine,
of going without;
Why could you have not taken me beyond with you.
To the place of spoken paradise,
Where we could again count the stars like we did
the night before you left.
The night the sky’s last star burned out and
So did mine.”
All through the nightI cannot wait to fall in love with the sound of your heart pressed against my ear,
Or the way my lips will steal the endings of your sentences.
The Sunday lazy mornings tangled in sheets, and the afternoons
Smelling of coffee beans from the old, run down coffee shop down the road,
The casual back and forth banter across different rooms,
You did it, no I.
The pulling in of my waist, pressed against you, shaking, breathing, nervously.
The kiss of my neck and the current of tingles that follow, the clasping of our hands and
the weaving of our fingers, the initial gentle kiss growing into what would be large gasps for air,
your body onto mine, we become one, you love me in a way that I cannot fathom,
you love me once, twice, and all through the night.
I cannot wait.
Vanguard, Chapter 1: DuncanDuncan's Journal: Day 1288
I consider myself a good man. I respect women, elders, my equals, and the dead. I say a morning prayer, and an evening one. Hell, I even thank the gods for a meal, instead of immediately chowing down in the voracious manner as the other soldiers here do. By all logical means, I should be in paradise. No really, not just because I'm a good man, but also because I should be dead by now. So I ask myself: why, oh gods up there, have I ended up in hell?
1288 days. 1288 days of my life have been spent in this misery, and I'm beginning to lose faith in the glory I was promised. Some of the rookies still live in their ignorant bliss, but I've lived long enough to realize that there's not much glory to find here. “Sing the songs of glory and march into battle—-join The Crusade today!”. Such were the words of the posters The Crusade has spread all over The Mortal Realm. Gullible fools practically stand in line for these songs of glory that th
LatreuophobiaI wash off sick-sweet orange lipstick in front of a mirror as dusty as gothic romances. It tastes like oblivion, that is to say, like nothing my tongue can detect.
The door opens with a creak no private restroom could emulate. Some chick with blue bobbed hair and smeared eyeliner. I looked like that once. Ten years ago.
Getting the beer out of my hair is harder. Some men just can't take it when I'd rather they not kiss my feet or call me an angel or-
“Dayum girl, you look like a goddess.”
I gulp, taste of acid.
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More