written progressively throughout the day. Contemplating. Musing.
Ninth of January
If it would make a difference, I would shout to you
Come, behold! I am here in burning flesh and
And sometimes, leaning on your sofa
In black sweaters and breathing in your scent, your
Cinnamon and tea,
You'll talk and your words are blended in a shapeless blur—
Amore. The word hangs off my tongue in dark, heavy drops and
If I let it drop would it be as a dark flower?
All subtle blues and a thousand Arabian Nights?
And what is Freud's Id? The true, basic want?
Promise me with flowers and I will
Cry when they are wilted.
I love you
And the world is silent, yellow.
Your hand is tame, seeking to subdue
And I am escapist; she who eludes collars and
Is not there tomorrow.
Bless me with secrets and my seat will still be empty.
In a dream, we were in Europe and it was gray with
The mood of the concrete and the color of your sweater.
It was not snowing here, though even if it did—
Even if the snow was soft and grey and dead—
It would have been
Such a shame for the flowers.
To paint those colors with the consistency of
Sleep is always certain,
Waking up is not.
In a dream, we were in Paris sitting by the Notre Dame
Quietly contemplating the gargoyles and whether
I would still love you tomorrow
And the day after
And the day that I wake up.
Why is it I can not concentrate and
The time is coming slow and sure and
To a s t o p
Like watching you when I
Know that you aren't looking.
I am still too young.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like
To see you in the morning—you,
Made of days outside and warmth in winter
(maybe that's why snow's so cold)
Stand outside my window.
I am selfish with want and crazed with doubt.
Why am I still waiting?
Without you smells like tea and
Hair on carpet.
What he leaves behind is a
A/N: I am a very experimental person. So I think I'm gonna go around and dabble in some styles (maybe actually learn what a haiku is) and such blah.