Unfaded.

You’re way ahead by now, a million miles into the river that leads you back home. My heart is spread too thin, fluctuating between wanting you and craving the death of every feeling you birthed in me.
I’m way behind by now, walking down streets where you have sung drunken promises, only to whisk them away, right from under my lashes.
I escape your love and convince myself it’s redemption. I extrapolate to anger, reaching out for the fire within. I play pretend. I run. I run until I can’t breathe, until I crash face down.
So tell me love, have you been to the sea where the waves first whispered to us the story of what could be? Have you sunk your toes into the sand and felt the warmth of my hand on yours? Do you remember the sound of my voice aching for your fingertips on my spine?
Sometimes I wake up and my sheets are white and the sun is warm.
And sometimes I remember that you’re my tongue’s favorite taste. And I go back to the beginning.

Sundays are for lovers*

Come lie down next to me,

my fingers drawing circles in the palm of your hand,

your ear against my beating heart,

your lips drawing breath from my lungs.

Curl up against my waist and fit into my curves like the gods have created your body solely for mine. The sun comes in through light curtains, moving up your arm and throwing warmth onto your cheeks. I play with your hair as you’re caught in between your words and sleepy eyes.

The cat stretches and comes prancing to snuggle under your feet. Dancing shadows emanating from tea cups send aroma into our living room, while the soft screeching record turns, swaying melody in the corners of the house.

You sigh deeply and drift off into slumber,

my fingers intertwined with yours,

my mind at peace,

my heart in bliss.

There are moments of idle pleasure that bring back my soul to life: me bringing you serenity on a Sunday morning, you giving me a sanctuary on an Autumn’s day.

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Morning dew

Please don’t be indefinitely broken, little heart of mine. Beat kindly into the night and sing me the lullaby of how you used to be tender. Please pick yourself back up and paint the stars in the sky, save them from being forgotten memories of ancient lifetimes.

You’ve done this before… I’ve witnessed, in awe, your struggle to believe, that love does not come in ones.

That just because they left, it doesn’t mean you failed.

That just because you lost a piece of yourself, it doesn’t mean you will never be whole again.

Dust yourself off, little heart of mine. Don’t be weary over lost fantasies of what could have been. The stars don’t always align for you. But even if they don’t, you have been loved…

you have been loved…

you have been loved.

Patch yourself up, little one. You have been kind, you have been brave. You have been honest. You have loved with depths you weren’t even aware you could tap into. With oceans of longing and crashing waves into your ribcage.

I know you’re exhausted. I can see you crawling into your own mind, convincing yourself that heartaches are for the brave. Repeating over and over, that you are battered, bruised and on the edge of dissipating into thin air. But you deserve more. You are worthy of more. You are destined for more.

Lift your head up, little heart of mine. You’re going to be ok.

Nao – In the morning

Charlotte Cradin – Like it doesn’t hurt

Wild Belle – Our love will survive

Birdy and Rhodes – Let It All Go

The unbearable state of desire.

My name is forever tainted by the sound of your breath. It is in deep embrace with each moan that escapes your muffled lips.

My name has been tamed. Each time they call it, I throb in anticipation of your fingernails digging into my spine. Chain my vocal chords with strands of your hair, my voice quivers when I hear yours.

My skin has changed patterns and my veins realigned following the trace your touch has left lingering. I itch unwillingly, feeling phantom cravings from faded deliriums. Perhaps the worst is feeling you so close into my hips, swinging from side to side, teasing with your smile. Perhaps the worst is reaching out to grab you and collecting dust.

My soul is famished for the spark you send dripping down my neck each time your hand touches mine in the morning, almost aching from the sleepy absent mindfulness of the night. And in this turmoil of beautiful agony, I breathe you in, take all of you into me, as if it were the last time we meet.

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Pink Diaries By Asher Moss.

Stray hearts°

You look at me with kind eyes that stretch into the horizon, and whisper words made from the melody of your heartbeats. You look at me with feelings that flow, pouring flowers from your lips and onto mine. You stay. And I push. And you stay. And I can’t breathe. Because I look at you with the sorrow of the words you’ll never mean. I look at you with blame for all the pain you will impose on my survival. I see you on my sheets, staining them with your scent that will curl up under my spine and unearth my lungs.

I look like a fresh Lilly with dew on my petals, waking up on a Sunday morning, with life sprouting in my veins. I seem like a drowsy drizzle on the edge of your window, pulling you from your soft slumber to come play under the willow tree.

But fundamentally and down to the core, I am a drenched log, expanding from all the humidity that has caused my heart to weigh me down. I am a leap of faith that has seized to comprehend distance and dimensions. I am a sentence of jumbled up words allocating letters to the sounds they don’t belong to.

Love, I trust your eyes, your lashes clutching to them like they’re what make you thrive.

Love, I believe in the air that blows through your ribs, bringing you closer together.

I just don’t trust the time that it took for you to fall, the same time it will take you to put on your coat and walk away.

Idle anthem.

Some things are better left unsaid, in the pit of your stomach, festering heartache of what could have been. Some things are better left alone, in dark corners of houses that used to be your haven.

Love, your heart is a gruesome desire of “can’t be” and “what should have been”. Your soul is tainted by screeching voices coming out of your bones.

You’ve come a long way, put the past in a box, wrapped it up nicely in a ribbon. You’ve made yourself a little gift, haven’t you? Thinking that if something so ugly from within looked remotely pleasant, it would feed your imagination with crude images of maybe-s.
Straighten up, hold it in, smile little puppet. You haven’t even began to understand all the ways in which you are broken.
Stand tall, aim high, you know it’s only a matter of time until you fall. But that’s alright because in any case, what other choice do you have?
You’re made of tiny bits, glued together by hopeful redemption, by sorrow and ambition. And you are worthy of love, the kind that will turn your scars into works of art.

Forceful endearment.

It’s 4 am and my body is weighed down with your arms wrapping me in what seems to be your expression of love. In my head I smoke out all the reasons that hold me into these walls of expectations. I stare at the ceiling drawing with my free hand the constellation of our past and what I thought would be our horizon. The fan keeps whispering to me. Humming alibis to set me free. And with every turn my heart sinks into mind-numbing settlement.

I offered you the sun, and you gave me a half lit candle with burning wax on my fingertips. I promised you fields of daisies and you gave me a wilted flower to smother between the pages of our favorite memory. I drew you a master piece of love, and you payed me back with apologies.
So tonight, with my feet tangled between the sheets to spare me senseless scars, I fall asleep wondering how did a love too strong to be devoured, ended up being the death of me.