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.

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.

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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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.