if someone had asked me when i was younger (and shallower, and dumber) to choose somebody to love (to hold and kiss until the end of time) i probably wouldn't have picked you.
in terms of society, you're no model (but your laugh lights up the sky) you are geeky and silly and just barely mature (but you make my heart ache when you look at me) you speak in languages that i don't understand (google translate says you speak of love) and it's confusing because i never took german.
"ich liebe dich" whispered on one summer's night departure cracked my soul open and split me through the middle and exposed me and tore me raw but then you saw me for me.
and vice versa.
i always said i'd never write a love song (and you can never hold a tune) but here's to hoping that maybe
one day we'll get there.
"This world is but a canvas to our imagination." ~Thoreau
you would hold me in one hand and a lighter in the other stress-ragged nails curled around mortality and a tiny box containing destruction you would smile at tendrils of ashen smoke twining circles around my love and squeezing too tight, too affectionate, too strong and i'd murmur sweetly in your ear "turn off the fire, lovely, do call it back"
you'd nod with understanding and switch off the flame, throw the old lighter in a bush somewhere, and hold my hand like nothing ever happened.
one day i looked down and saw that i was smoking flames twirling patterns across my skin, and I started pulling apart my own ribs to get away from it all from the pain, when i looked up and saw you standing there smile on your face, as always, and in your hand was the matchbox.
"This world is but a canvas to our imagination." ~Thoreau
swish of air conditioned chill goosebumps inching up forearms taut i creep into a glittering trove of gems firebrick reds and cerulean blues turquoise dark, ghost white, chartreuse treasures, all of it, bottles and bottles, shelf upon shelf all mine for the taking, and only one beast lies between me and triumph: the art shop cashier.
"This world is but a canvas to our imagination." ~Thoreau
everyone trusts me with everything, it seems i sit for hours playing therapist playing comfort playing, pretending, a fake i care for them, i do, i want to listen i want to make you feel stronger give you someone to cling to and i do, everyday but when no one asks me how my day is how i'm feeling what i need help with pauses long enough to play therapist just once for me i get bitter and bitter therapists never helped anyone.
"This world is but a canvas to our imagination." ~Thoreau
shaking and shuddering we are constantly ripping apart and smashing back together in forced displays of affection, wilted flowers trapped between stiff joints and strained smiles.
"you two were simply made for each other"
you like to grab my hand but every time you squeeze far too hard.
the earth adores change, and maybe so do i.
"This world is but a canvas to our imagination." ~Thoreau
sometimes I'll look up the definition of success and the results are unsatisfactory so I determined that sensations of panic are nothing to fear these mistakes and aspirations are mine to hold, anyway, between the folds of paper and under a cross-knit sky I dare to mar this purity bound by silver rings yes, I dare to admire what I love most is this because dammit this is mine, I made it, and maybe it will be enough to get me out.
Last edited by Sonder on Tue Apr 28, 2015 11:39 am, edited 1 time in total.
"This world is but a canvas to our imagination." ~Thoreau
I let hopeless romantic self loose for ONE poem and it's just so...ugh. XD
#29
i want you to look at me and when i smile you'll grin softly, hesitantly, then in full you'll lean in, to whisper to me and instead of secrets in my ear suddenly there's lips pressed to my cheek and you form the words "i love you," against my skin as your arms hold me to you and i'll smile, content.
"This world is but a canvas to our imagination." ~Thoreau
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