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Literature Text
In the space between our hands lie a secret
Your fingers ghost over mine and
I liked the uncertainty
In the space between our lips
Lie a question
A slow breath releasing
Just one emotion
In the space between our eyes
Lie an answer
The sun emboldens your irises
And the sky makes them sane
And in the space between our hearts
Lie our destinies
Each heartbeat of yours
Is a heartbeat of mine
And until the day yours stops,
It will beat until the end of time.
Done | 08.05.14
Your fingers ghost over mine and
I liked the uncertainty
In the space between our lips
Lie a question
A slow breath releasing
Just one emotion
In the space between our eyes
Lie an answer
The sun emboldens your irises
And the sky makes them sane
And in the space between our hearts
Lie our destinies
Each heartbeat of yours
Is a heartbeat of mine
And until the day yours stops,
It will beat until the end of time.
Done | 08.05.14
Literature
coda
under tangerine skies,
you pulse and I
fall short
seeking diamonds
from the whites in your eyes
and finding sacred
how your back talks to me.
you drop your bits of nowhere
for me to scavenge,
never rash enough to hunt
but I think I'm done
whetting the leftovers
of your summer -
I think
my leaves look fine
without your color.
Literature
Here
There will never be a straight path to where you want to go. We meander and wade through the soundtrack of our lives and still, we might never get there. I see you twisting your body round the desk as you, write this, write me, write them away. How many seconds did you pause before considering your underlying regret? Go straight, turn left and left again and still, you might never get there. What tethers us to this spot? What unknowns have we buried, have we uncovered? Today, I read that two scientists found fossils of a giant carnivore and I wondered at their bones. Did they rest easy? Did they sprint? Did they get to where they needed to go? I give up too easily and talk too much to stay here. So i turn round, head back and decided that right here and now, is where I needed to be.
Literature
In March
Gray clouds on brightest blue
Slowly go thudding by.
So they buried Old Man Winter.
I say that he did not die.
The boring sun cannot blot out
The crimped dread from land and sky,
Tensing for a reckoning.
I'll burn again, by and by.
The bare trees stand straight, sky-pulled,
Against the wet and melting snow.
What has all winter clung to branch
And trunk, that makes all outlines glow?
It is not time for April rains
To lull the thing that clings to bed.
The God is on the land again,
And is singing in my head.
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I've had the best and worst day of my life so far and yet my brain would rather churn out creative images of star-crossed lovers.
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