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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.
sun worshipand we, the broken-winged disciplesthrum closer, closer--seeking warmth on our dust-drenched backs,and reflections,and a landmark in the wide and opendark.we breathe,together(closer)--moths among the fireflies.
pre-subliminationa few years back you drownedyourself nightly, face-downand bloated, infatuatedwith the moon's pearly depressions.in darkness, I’d remembered you asthe theoretical portrait you usedto define death to differentphilosophers. but now, a longand simple time exceeds your carefulskin, your embryonic forms bruisingbeneath quietudes where i had promisedyou absolution and developed things,and you kept still like a planet.the letters you wrote from loved to lonelywere there when you peeled back my teachings,because the skin beneath my thoughtswas your one taste of honest stillnesswithout newspaper words calling themselvesover, heady and apologetic, like linealbeauties mating with the ambience.you prophesized your own downfalland romanticized it, noting onlythe longevity of the paper doll people withchampagne sincerities frothing from their lips,instead of the muffled pulse they carriedin weakness. and when you scar,not beautifully, you will beginto honor the treas
Prelude Nocturne;I conjure the moonas dusk crests, a wave across the sky I am lovely and lonely in the night, shadow- shackled to the mountainsideand the mothsunfurl their hamsa-wings asmama calls me in.
a different explorationwe talk aboutastrology and ex lovers. the raspberriesdying in the heat, the way the waterbit our skin, the homeless man set outto buy California, the center of our universe,you. that feeling labelled “blah,”and the notion I am not my own.we leak questionslike overrun rivers, excess spillage,draining curiosities about that tragic skeletonballed 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 stragglersin seven billion exempt fromclarity and unclaimed skin.-I know this guy who hadsorry lips and scars down his spinewithout a story. we didn’t havea thing to say so we talked abouthow the stars were our newest horizon,the undefined, and how we’d escape to themsome day.
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