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Literature Text
I'm hiding in your shirt,
missing you,
listening to you ask me to
talk to you,
just to have you respond like you've forgotten me,
a stranger to you.
It seems the tables are turned,
with you
so ready to give up
and me, never so unprepared
to live without you.
We've been laying in silence
for fifteen minutes
and I've already forgotten
what your voice sounds like.
missing you,
listening to you ask me to
talk to you,
just to have you respond like you've forgotten me,
a stranger to you.
It seems the tables are turned,
with you
so ready to give up
and me, never so unprepared
to live without you.
We've been laying in silence
for fifteen minutes
and I've already forgotten
what your voice sounds like.
Literature
Things they don't tell you.
Things they don’t tell you about losing your grandfather on a Tuesday night:
When you wake the next morning, you still
need to get out of bed in time for work, you still
have to shower, dress yourself, eat breakfast, brush
your teeth and hair;
and when your mother calls
to check in, you have to comfort her because she lost
her dad last night;
and when you call your grandmother
your voice cannot waver lest you upset her, because
she lost a man she's known for seventy years and even
though she would never hold it against you, you still
feel obligated not to cry;
Literature
Honeystars
A budding morrow
rests and breathes
in the specks
of dusk
between your lashes.
Honeystars
they shine
within an earthly heaven,
sweet
safe promise
of warmth.
Like a chestnut leaf
placed
through the pages
of my restless story
you keep dreams
bright
and still.
Living proof
that firefly flames
can give rise
to an eternal
summer day,
you are
the laugh of the forest
after rain.
In your gaze:
ground castle
on the edge
of the world,
is the dark
made small.
Literature
Right
Here's the bad news:
tomorrow
there will be a bird
on your doorstep.
Dead or dying, you think
it has something to do
with me. It does not.
There's the crux
you always think
the bird should rise up
and proclaim its killer,
its savior, should point out
which cat only watched and which
opened its mouth; which cat
is not a cat but a storm
or a window or another bird
and to be honest,
I would like these things too.
But it owes us only its death,
incapable of shaming
our compulsive involvement,
our need to make the bird
about ourselves.
You want to be jury
in an empty room. You want
to hold court
for every little thing
that makes you feel.
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21 Oct 16
© 2016 - 2024 curls-and-yelling
Comments2
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beautiful poem with such strained feelings.