Precious Littlewhen i ponder
and all of life's beautiful things; in all their timelessness
i also think;
and what precious, little
we have left
DissolutionYou compared it to walking in bare feet through a graveyard,
or trying to find a shard of ice in a box of broken glass,
when pain is not a distinguishing feature of anything -
you just have to feel the blood get colder.
So I laughed, and watched the dribble come down my finger,
the droplets pooling strangely, upside down puddles, on my finger-tips,
freezing like tiny algal blooms on the surface of my flaking skin.
Or so I imagined.
You were cold as a child, and you never really got over it.
You decided to buy a coat in the autumn,
but you forgot, and forgot, until all the saturdays were gone, and it was too late.
You slowly became more and more bruised that winter.
I wanted to kiss you, then,
but your skin was liquid,
and my mouth always came away coated in a little too much blood,
so you were content with just holding onto me, coughing your life into the fabric of my clothes.
I sometimes realised, just for a second, that I was the one who would bleed out.
It was like
OlimYou stepped very softly.
It seemed rather impossible, by my eyes,
to hide a single cadence, or a pinch of opium, between the softly feathered pages, so continuous
tears fall like meaningless prose from the pages, dripping into the endless deluge to be lost,
while billions of other things happen in billions of other places.
The book told us we'd been wandering too long,
although no-one believed it. The book said we'd be born again, in some other place. And people were divided.
And maintaining an image is just hard, so you decide to fluctuate, and then change your mind.
Just to keep in spirit, but you couldn't be sure. Leaving every room to shouts of abstract questions that slipped into the parallel.
They mostly just belonged to me, and the tiny things that walked around, and around, and around,
inside my head.
And I could try and kiss you,
but the Oesophagus that vanishes on the wall
knows you, and you are probably elsewhere.
Staggering punch-drunk through the city str
My life or NothingMy life is like a sentence, but all the words are disappearing,
so all I am left with is nothing.
My life is like a sentence,
all I am left with; is nothing.
Seven MonthsSeven Months~
I write this for you.
You first came in a warm November. I remember thinking of you like a flower. You WERE a flower, a little late; as I had been waiting; but more beautiful than all others. It was getting a little cooler, but you made my body warm. Life was like a blissful stupor then. A lot happens in seven months.
I planned every detail out in my head, what you would be called, what you would look like. I especially thought about your eyes. They would be blue like mine. I would point to them in the mirror as I spoke to you - little oceans in our eyes, just the same. When I think back, this makes no sense. At the time, it was the only rational thing in the whole world.
Most times, when little ones like you come, they put you in a blanket, in someone's arms. They make you feel safe. Seven months later, it was definitely winter. I felt so soft - l