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.I have fallen in love with a boy who keeps a notebook.
Sometimes I see him, from the corner of my eyes, drafting lines of poetry.
Sometimes he draws the stars, and all the moons of Saturn, and the lines of my face.
He fears the day the pages will run blank.
But I know they will never.
a different explorationwe talk about
astrology and ex lovers. the raspberries
dying in the heat, the way the water
bit our skin, the homeless man set out
to buy California, the center of our universe,
you. that feeling labelled “blah,”
and the notion I am not my own.
we leak questions
like overrun rivers, excess spillage,
draining curiosities about that tragic skeleton
balled up beneath your clothes.
and for you,
I’d travel the length between heartbeats,
shallow and vain like your promises,
your liquid eyes.
above all, we were lucky.
miracle children. one in ten,
one in a million, a pair of stragglers
in seven billion exempt from
clarity and unclaimed skin.
I know this guy who had
sorry lips and scars down his spine
without a story. we didn’t have
a thing to say so we talked about
how the stars were our newest horizon,
the undefined, and how we’d escape to them
I conjure the moon
as dusk crests,
a wave across the sky
I am lovely and lonely in
the night, shadow-
shackled to the mountainside
and the moths
unfurl their hamsa-wings as
mama calls me in.
sun worshipand we, the broken-winged disciples
thrum closer, closer--
seeking warmth on our dust-drenched backs,
and a landmark in the wide and open
moths among the fireflies.
Xiao HuziYou are born to the sunset of the last day of summer, a titian crown of autumn leaves already in place upon your head. There is a thickness in the air and it drapes itself over your newborn skin; pale flesh mottled by both the luminescence of the orange sky, and the shadows of darkness' steady manifestation. Your head is too heavy to watch the moon rise gently into the heavens yellow and swollen, the mother of night's vast wonders but, perhaps by the touch of her light on your eyelids, you know that she is there. Likewise, some inborn inkling tells you that the stars, late in their nightly awakening, are still shrouded in a heavy dusk blanket. You too are still drowsy, and can empathise with their reluctance to rise.
In this vale the birdsong is thick with sleep, trees stand still, slick with wood resin, and there are no beetles amongst the moss to set the undergrowth humming. Even the river has slowed its effervescent churning, calming to an indolent stream. T
pre-subliminationa few years back you drowned
yourself nightly, face-down
and bloated, infatuated
with the moon's pearly depressions.
in darkness, I’d remembered you as
the theoretical portrait you used
to define death to different
philosophers. but now, a long
and simple time exceeds your careful
skin, your embryonic forms bruising
beneath quietudes where i had promised
you absolution and developed things,
and you kept still like a planet.
the letters you wrote from loved to lonely
were there when you peeled back my teachings,
because the skin beneath my thoughts
was your one taste of honest stillness
without newspaper words calling themselves
over, heady and apologetic, like lineal
beauties mating with the ambience.
you prophesized your own downfall
and romanticized it, noting only
the longevity of the paper doll people with
champagne sincerities frothing from their lips,
instead of the muffled pulse they carried
in weakness. and when you scar,
not beautifully, you will begin
to honor the treas
you need to have a plan...so here's to
to some forgotten shore.
2. fall desperately in love with
i. the ocean
ii. the sky
iii. the honey sunrise and
iv. the steelgray winter dawn.
soul-deep into the water and
4a. search out the requisite words
i. from behind white and blue curtains
ii. and underneath clam shells
iii. and in the wakes of fishing boats, and
4b. pluck them from the ceaseless
scrawls of sunlight
against the slopes of waves.
5. make time for
ii. and other
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