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.

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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.

Songs for dirty lovers.

My love for you is unwavering in its strength. It abides by no law of martyrdom and voracity. I thought if you’d feed off me, you’ll garnish my soul with your touch. I wanted to ignite you but I never thought you’d grow an arsenal to burn me down.

My love for you is rooted deep into my skin. It itches to be free but knows of no place to call home. My heart looks for sheets untainted and pure. But everything I touch is left with the smell of you.

My love for you disgusts me. It brings my flaking knees to bend. I hoped I’d cleanse the misery out of your pores, but was left with undisclosed thoughts and locked lips.

I thought my love was enough

Salt.

There is something very poetic about the sound of the waves crashing against your skin, wrapping you in prickly sensations and thrusting you towards my reaching arms. I revolve around my own spine and untangle my legs to make room for yours… you smile, the sun reflecting off your eyes into the horizon, your shoulders a place where I want to make a home.
We swim to shore our faces to the sky, eyes wide shut to a foreign reality. Your fingers slip away. I reach the shore. And you drift away.

Story of three.

I remember the time you put your tongue between my lips and told me how you’ve never kissed anyone with the taste of licorice in their mouths. You let your hands drop down my waist and said that I’m made of the bitter taste of Heaven. Your fingers traced my shoulder and my heart pounded like the fire of a million sun.

I saw in your eyes what I saw in all of my ones, the reasons why you and I could make atoms explode and recreate the universe.

I remember that morning I woke up, and your gentle embrace was holding me like a fetus that’s not ready to come out and face the world. And you told me that life could wait for us to just hide in between the folds of the waves crashing on our shore.

I felt like your body was the home I was desperately looking for, and your bones were the frame to the bed I wanted to sleep in forever.

I remember that day you took me by the hand and we ran across the fallen leaves. You broke my shell and told me that life is too short to do the same things twice. And you whispered to me that sometimes people are like memories even when they stain your sheets with wine.

I only understood that you were talking about me when I saw your slouching back running towards another fleeting flashback.

playlist:

Nym – Lesser Known Good

L’orange – The Good Shepherd

Degiheugi – Le Temps Est Bon (Remix)

 

 

Ode to my daffodil.

Hands on marble counters collecting dust from unwanted promises. Leaves torn up from naked branches fallen at the roots, hoping to be recollected in a warm embrace. I look at the walls I used to recognize so well, the pillars that used to keep me so safe, and I think about the last time this room felt like home.

Each time I revisit that house I come back with less spark in my eyes. A little more rotten. But the more I stay away, the more it has a hold on me.

So I walk in between the sheets of paper crumbled on the floor, worried that if I touch them I would succumb to what is written in between the lines, and I go up the stairs trying hard no to lose balance. There used to be pictures here… Now it’s just empty frames of forgotten memories. 

As I reach the little bed of cherry blossoms, I lay my head on stiffened feathers and I wonder if I should be dissapointed that they can’t see how shattered you made me, or proud because you taught me how to hide it so well.