Lillies

If I slice my heart open, you will see flours sprout and roots sewing the pieces back together gently and softly.

If I turn my back to you and offer up my spine as a fishing rod, you will see feathers nesting in between my bones.

If I open up my palm and reach out to yours, you can look down on my life line growing.

My scars are there, unhidden, unapologetic.

Look closely and see how they have healed, untainted by pain, unaffected by loss.

My skin reminds me of your touch and my heart beats singing your name.

But my skin is thick and remembers what it needs to grow brighter.

And my heart is fierce and only remembers how light is something that comes from within and not from people.

This is a story void of metaphors.

This is a tale with no symbolism.

This is a love letter.

This is a love letter to you.

You that you have brought my wilting heart back.

You have breathed the memories of what it feels like to be capable of generous love.

But love is fickle.

And when I say fickle and remember you, I stop myself.

I see how before we were the ghost of something undefined, we were the light of a burning candle in the midst of darkness.

But for now I cradle my heart, slowly, let it unfold, and tell it the story of how it overcame many crashing waves in order to enjoy the warm sun.

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Linger•

Fickle is my touch when I come across your scent on my sheets… It takes me by surprise and pins me down, like a dream within a dream. A reality I can’t wake up from. I stumble upon particles of your memory drunk on my pillow, swaying between my neck and my thighs.
My throat collapses and words fail me as I try to lean on you.
Embrace me
Tumble upon me
Take me by the hand and tell me our secret is safe.
Tell me your ribcage is my shelter
Your breath my resistance
Your skin my token.

My sky is dark at dawn, my eyes are weary at dusk, and the time in between is tainted with the possibility of my thoughts falling apart from this cycle of doubt. My palms are sweaty, my head is heavy but mostly my bed is empty and my home is in a place that isn’t mine.

I miss you like the world gives a damn. But time is cruel and distance is delusional. And home is a place where memories wait to consume me.

home•

The ocean speaks to me in misty whispers, tells me secrets from across the atlantic… I dip my toes in the freezing water and reminisce about the times light fluctuated on your skin and extended to my spine.

There are mornings when I wake up and feel your love engulfing me with tenderness. And there are nights when I fall asleep with the memory of your fingertips resting against my hips.

My love, you are made of tiny particles of perfect moments that extend into infinity. You are stitched together with droplets of generous affection and lightness. You cradle my baffled heart with such ease, it makes its walls expand with unwavering happiness.

You are skin and bones and constant wonder and I wander in all the words you whisper to me. And when I listen closely, I can almost touch your lips with mine and draw breath from your love.

But love, most of all, you are home.

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.