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Literature
Lorraine
I pulled you out of the river, girl, as if you were a swan maiden;
shot down by some cruel and greedy archer, hiding between the juniper shades,
the tip of an arrow pointed directly at your elegant and curved, long, neck;
the beat of your Scotch Mist wings, the gentle fluttering of a near-death experience,
only solidifying his cold-hearted intent.
Oh I watched you fall, but I couldn't stomach the sight of your rapidly drowning form;
now completely human, now completely mortal and feminine,
so lackluster, as all of the natural color drained from
your cheekbones, your lace-trim jaw-line and tulip mouth;
as your breath caught in your throat, eliciting only a handful of stuttering gasps,
desperately clinging to the fragile spring life-lines,
the thinning threads of a sinking star-ship, a silver-gold youth..
Flightless bird, I could not live with myself if I were to ignore your gargled screams;
the frantic splashing sounds of medusa-haired water,
all threatening and envy green-colored fear
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Literature
letters to the sky
One Monday morning, before the dawn's sunflower light casts its shadow
over my clay-toned features, I wake up to a curtain of silver rain,
falling gracefully outside my window; and your ghost is there,
materialized, floating; see-through, over the balcony.
But the strangest thing about your sudden appearance is actually
your wings, so iconic for a non-haloed being, dove-white and ever so bold,
taking up space and announcing your arrival
as always a heaven-sent; goddamn half-bird-half-human, star-skinned child.
Yet now, they are nowhere in sight; your wings, that is, boy;
I can't help but notice right away how they are suddenly missing.
And sitting up in my large bed, I feel the cold and empty spaces around me,
as I watch your phantom press a hand against the glass bordering my bedroom.
I find my lips forming the forbidden shape of your name, but no sound comes out.
And before I can gather up the courage to call out to your impossibly
shimmering silhouette, you are already gone, vanishi
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country breakfast by autumn-spirit country breakfast :iconautumn-spirit:autumn-spirit 5 2 French Toast a la Sharon by autumn-spirit French Toast a la Sharon :iconautumn-spirit:autumn-spirit 8 3
Literature
Alyssium
I had your name in my head, before I even knew you..
I swear I'd heard it in some strange deja vu moment, a 12 o'clock fantasy;
all sleepy-eyed, pajama-clad legs, crazy-socked feet and
a tangled mess of honey-brown hair draped down my back,
winter night ice-toned fingers rubbing sawdust from my lavender and sunflower lids.
With my stomach growling, almost subtly; perhaps that was me,
when I first stopped to listen to the rain streaming gently
from the chalk-white heavens, outside that unfamiliar apartment;
as I wondered whether I had been there before,
many years ago, in that slippery-glass hallway.
But maybe, you weren't there at all, darling..
Oh maybe it was really just the dream of somebody like you; understanding and calm,
nonjudgmental and oh-so interested in what I had to say,
in listening to all of my favorite songs,
reading all the scraps of homespun poetry that came out of my head; my heart,
too fast and never making it to the publisher's office in time
for his or her morning
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Literature
Leon
Oh some people might call me crazy, confused, still; shameless and lost,
a golden sunrise broken child with not so much as an ounce of common sense,
leaving behind bread crumbs; tracks everywhere,
all the way up from the navy-blue and scarlet East Coast,
down south, back to his moss-and-ivy green hometown of Metairie, Louisiana.
Some folks might even claim that I got what I deserved,
that it's only a matter of time before I burn up; from the inside out, and
turn this godless, yet, still scorching bronze soul of mine
black with the very fire that made my renaissance-heart beat so fiercely before.
Oh yes, but tell me; even if that's true, dear Leon,
would you still come looking for me then, between the faithful bride-white
magnolia trees, through the cotton fields and peach groves,
if you knew that I was still here waiting, shamelessly, would you come meet me?
Oh I could never say no to you, Leon; that's the god-honest truth..
And coming from a cellophane sinner like me, you'd better bel
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Literature
Druid blood and flower crowns
Your sea-glass eyes peek out from beneath fern fronds and ice-pine saplings,
always careful, always watchful; collected in the way
they follow passersby on the road, patiently waiting for the right moment,
for the right target to appear; perhaps on horseback,
or on the soles of dirt-encrusted boots.
You've changed so much, girl, in such a short amount of time.
Like a serpent, you live in hiding now,
slithering around the borderlands of a place you once called “Paradise on Earth”.
Oh how strange it is to think about the times when
you used to dance in the courtyard of your family's summer-house,
a perfect Elizabethan cottage; all ivy and tea-roses,
emerald maze-gardens and wild rabbits
hiding in mulberry hedges, behind marble bird-baths.
“That was another life, entirely..”
Girl, your voice carries a note of regret, and yet,
the rest of your emotions are overpowered by sharp and heavy doses of pent-up rage
and fiery scorn; bitter pain, the inability to trust,
susp
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Literature
of blood-root and naivete
All I remember from that ink-splattered blue-black night;
before I took my last sip of mulberry wine from the bottle
hidden snugly inside your hunter's pouch
and we kissed until we fell asleep, is how
the sky was tainted with fire and lightning;
remnants of a war that went by, too quickly
to be completely erased, to be trusted as genuine relief,
to be comforting in any way, shape or form.
And all I remember is that you were searching for hope,
boy, your eyes searching for a light
through the gloomy wall of trees surrounding us; and
I was just trying not to think too much about anything,
to just live in the moment, listening to the sounds of
nocturnal creatures lurking around;
all disquiet and anxious, buzzing with electricity,
with strange radioactive energy, just like us.
The owls and coyotes; insects and god-knows-what else, were
making more noise than usual, and unexpectedly,
you held my hand because you thought I was scared.
But the truth is that I was just tired of
putting on a br
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Literature
missed the exit
Maybe I shouldn't have stayed as long as I had
in that tiny little town near Mohican Hills, Ohio.
Maybe I shouldn't have gotten on a bus, after outstaying my welcome
in the Midwest and headed for your city of origin;
your home in the clouds, high up in the Catskill mountains,
surrounded by fog and evergreen pollen, haunted
by blackbird calls and the distant mechanical churning of wheels,
of train engines and newsboy shouts.
Perhaps I should have been braver, more resourceful and less vulnerable,
picking up my few belongings and walking out
into the chilly and unpredictable iced cherry air.
I told myself that I only needed one night to realize where we stood
and what we meant to each other, assuming that the end was near,
assuming that I had nothing left to lose but the memory of your smile;
crooked, due to the cigarette tucked between your marzipan-dusted lips.
And perhaps, I was just a foolish girl who lost her footing,
who trusted a stranger; a self-proclaimed drifter, city-slick sin
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Literature
Calliope
We are pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, in this makeshift lean-to;
built with poles and branches from old dead woodpecker havens,
hummingbird twigs and scraps of dream-cloth, tarp and aluminum from an old rocket,
fired off from an unknown faraway kingdom; into this great navy expanse of night,
and missing the stars, landing here, of all damn places, where we are; you and I,
lying side-by-side, in the middle of a castaway's hidden jungle.
Oh where the sky was once tattooed with little glittering jewels for your own amusement,
girl, it is now just sporting a terrifying gray-orange-red tint
as clouds of toxic gas engulf the sun; the early June half-moon,
and everything enchanting that ever smiled down on us from above.
And you don't know how much I wish I could wake you up with a different scene entirely..
Yes, I wish I could take you back to what was once our unassuming railroad town,
in our home-country of wheat and lavender fields; old cowboy saloons and
other square-shaped buildings, dre
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Literature
I'd give you the world
There is no wedding-cake moon on our side of the planet, friend.
It might sound absurd but it's the god-honest truth, if ever there was one.
Whenever I look out the windows of my apartment in the upper-city,
I see a cluster of equally crystal-styled buildings and skyscrapers
surrounding my super-lux home, where the night is nothing but onyx-black
and slick; shiny and perfect,  smooth-faced and hollow with no stars,
no wish-granting diamonds to give it that magical quality
that it always has in Turn of the Century romance novels.
Of course, on your side; in the slums, you don't even get
a ceiling of velvet-patterned sky, boy.
No, where you grew up, the paper-cut houses of the poor and sick are
all that remains of a dilapidated and abandoned kingdom;
not even green and lush with 1950s lawns, no, not anymore.
Your world only consists now of grimy alleyways and mini fires that
burn bird-and-grass meals for large and hungry families;
knife-and-cheek cement slabs for sidewalks, dumpster
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Literature
Holy Ghost
Pale blue-yellow skies, winter chill and violet eyelids;
that is all that this city is reduced to, now that you're gone,
now that your precious name has been smudged out of our hometown record.
It's so frustratingly sad, but true; my lock-heart season,
your memory has now been compromised, somewhere out there,
in that immeasurable and silver-toned ghost-space.
Even so, I promised myself that I wouldn't let you float too far away from me..
Because blood-brothers; we swore, almost a decade ago,
with actual gold and brass markings, hands gripping forearms,
promising to never abandon one another in any type of
hopeless scenario or post-apocalyptic universe.
Friend, it was just that; an oath that could never be undone, could never be soiled or broken.
And perhaps, I put too much faith in this; perhaps,
I got carried away by my self-assured means of survival, didn't
look back long enough to see what you needed most in that moment,
failed to catch the eerie signs of toxic violence
lurking aro
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Literature
the Truth about Forever
You came into my life, randomly; suddenly, like a surprise spring shower,
quiet elegance in each movement, yet still carrying
an unpleasant undertone of rotting cedar; mulch and wet leaves,
dried roses, melancholy and dark memories.
Oh you did not have the violence of a hurricane
or a thunderstorm, my strange blackbird-friend.
Fear did not emanate from your bones; your peach-toned limbs,
and even though you did not smile outwardly,
I had the feeling that you were capable of momentary lapses in judgment,
rare and often unseen, unappreciated moments of kindness.
But still, I caved; I let you win me over, so please hear me out now,
even though I hardly have the right to follow in your footsteps.
After everything; you must know, friend, that
we had it all wrong, from the very beginning.
Yes, because the truth about forever is that it's not something that we actually crave.
No, I'm sorry to disappoint all the romantics out there,
but humans get bored, much too easily.
They want to undo wish
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Literature
sleeping-warrior
Your skin couldn't have been paler than the moon, Soldier,
but it did shine like a cosmic rock when I pressed my hand
against the wound, just below you starlit rib-cage.
Oh back then, I wondered how many secrets you were hiding
underneath those patriotic threads; your both metaphorical,
and physical layers of midnight-blue, poppy-seed red.
Yes, I'll admit it; I was jaded and curious,
I was taken aback by your gifted silence,
the way you always ended your sentences abruptly; randomly,
sounding as if you were about to say something important, reveal mysteries.
But then, frustratingly, you always changed your mind.
Oh but still, I wanted to get to know you better and
uncover those strange half-truths and free the skylark-spirit that you had
caged inside that brass lock-and-key heart of yours.
Boy, you weren't even aware of it, were you,
beating its impatient wings inside your weary chest?
No, that's the saddest part of it all, probably;
the fact that you didn't even know that it existed i
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Literature
dogs and dead seraphs
As the postscript stars dipped down into the ocean,
I remember how your heart caught flame.
Cradled in my arms, boy, you were a Victorian train-wreck;
a disaster of a perfect dream,
a mechanical romance, losing steam.
Oh it was tragic and strange; eerie, so to speak,
the part of you that remained,
a glimpse of ash-silver hair and the unmistakable chalk-outline
of prism-shattered wings, all of what could have been..
Oh I had no more tears left to cry,
to wipe the soot and city-grime from your striking face;
your high and fine cheekbones,
your gingham-red button lips, the tiny hints of disappointment
and fairy-dust clinging to your ever-long paintbrush-lashes.
Oh no, I have to say that I did waste them all,
while you were still alive.
Boy, I felt just as much the villain as you did,
all your precious existence; in the end,
even though when the cops showed up, they comforted me, instead.
Yes, as I sat there; on that haunted bridge,
my hands stained with East Coast rain and my own family's
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Literature
what you said and how it changed me
Turtle-dove, your expression is indecipherable
through the glass barrier between us.
I sit here in a prison in the Kanto district,
facing you, for the first time in months.
Oh turtle-dove, you’re just as spring-looking, as pure as ever..
I wish I had a better image to give you when you leave.
I wish I could see the silver-crane night sky from this cell,
so that I could bottle up the stars in my memory,
name the brightest one after you.
But after all this time, after all of the events that followed;
that sordid bloodstained recollection,
girl, do you even want to know about me anymore?
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here!” you quip,
in one of your rare and priceless moments of anger.
“Oh I was beginning to think that
you had no negative emotions at all, girl;
inside that silk-wrapped heart of yours,”
I tease, on the surface; only partially because
I can’t help but believe that, my turtle-dove,
you are as saintly and angelic as they come.
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I pulled you out of the river, girl, as if you were a swan maiden;
shot down by some cruel and greedy archer, hiding between the juniper shades,
the tip of an arrow pointed directly at your elegant and curved, long, neck;
the beat of your Scotch Mist wings, the gentle fluttering of a near-death experience,
only solidifying his cold-hearted intent.
Oh I watched you fall, but I couldn't stomach the sight of your rapidly drowning form;
now completely human, now completely mortal and feminine,
so lackluster, as all of the natural color drained from
your cheekbones, your lace-trim jaw-line and tulip mouth;
as your breath caught in your throat, eliciting only a handful of stuttering gasps,
desperately clinging to the fragile spring life-lines,
the thinning threads of a sinking star-ship, a silver-gold youth..
Flightless bird, I could not live with myself if I were to ignore your gargled screams;
the frantic splashing sounds of medusa-haired water,
all threatening and envy green-colored fear bubbles,
mirrored in the pool's celestial reflection.
So, I dove right in, without thinking twice;
I grabbed hold of your tired, yet, still warm body.
I pulled you out before the rapids could overtake us both;
before it was too late for my foolish and headstrong soul,
and in that moment, I realized, unexpectedly, that
I was just as desperate; just as nearly suicidal, as you must have been.

But we were both alright in the end; we both got out, in the nick of time,
and lived to tell the tale about how we had no choice but to leap off of a cliff,
our hands clasped and our hearts stuck in our parchment throats.
It was all a lie, but it did not matter because we both had so much to lose
in that moment; so much we could leave unsaid and buried deep
underneath September dirt and acorns, russet leaves and robin nests,
peeled blue eggshells, simply to dub no one the wiser; our legacy
nothing but blind faith and malt-tasting teenage runaway passion,
New Year's Eve regrets in rain-spotted silk.

Oh but nobody expected you to make it, girl..
When I found a village in Normandy, Lorraine,
with a tiny inn where we could stay a fortnight;
nestled between the huge alabaster rock formations and lavender fields,
with rose-tinted buildings and winding cobblestone streets,
I was carrying you, half unconscious form in my arms, girl.
And the woman inside the inn who worked as a herbalist and a part-time nurse
told me that you looked weaker than a drowned-out kitten,
a sick pneumonia-stricken child; and that
I shouldn't expect you to walk around, for a couple of days.
But truthfully, hearing this, I felt devastated, terrified
that you might never recover and that I would have to return to Paris
a failure; a killer by association, with the group of hunters
that had attacked and threatened to maim you, mar your exquisite form beyond repair.
Yet, soon I realized that if you had been strong enough
to survive such a far-off fall from the treetop heavens;
then, there must still be some fight left inside that still-beating Paisley heart of.

Now, I'm glad to say that I was right; after hours of restless sleep,
you started coughing up river-water as you tried to sit up in the narrow guest-room bed,
gasping for clear breath and almost choking to death, girl.
But I wouldn't let you sink back down into that dark and lonely state of mind and body,
almost losing touch with reality again.
No, I refused to cower in the corner and let you fall; and so,
I called the midwife and the nurses over.
They all gathered round and told me to lift your head up, so that
you wouldn't bite down on your tongue, accidentally.
And after a couple of gentle, yet, firm pats on the back;
a thimbleful of sage, brown sugar and vinegar,
we finally got you to settle down, Lorraine,
to breathe properly and easily again.
“There,” said one of the old women who had tended to your health,
who had eased my anxiety, as well, unknowingly.
“Now she is just tired from all that coughing, that wretched choking spell.”
She said to me in a motherly tone, “Just let her rest, dear boy.
I assure you that your lady friend will be right as rain by dawn.”
And, relieved, I smiled in gratitude; but before she left the room,
the old innkeeper's wife said, “Believe me, child,
you've done more than enough good, just by bringing her here.”

Oh even though I was grateful and I wanted to believe in that woman's words more than ever,
I also knew that I wasn't the one who was ill and in need of encouragement, and so
I sat back down in the chair in the corner of the room.
I waited for you to open your eyes and acknowledge my presence by your side
as something close to noble, by heart and not by blood;
because, honestly, it was the only thing that mattered
in that dull taupe and pumpkin-seed moment.
And when you did awake, the third time, you turned your head and gazed at me, solemnly,
You inquired in a hoarse voice, “Why are you here?”
Of course, we had known each other from Versailles;
from court where we used to walk down those dimly lit corridors,
almost knowing our exact place in time, almost feeling like we belonged
among the majestic peacocks with their vibrant feathers,
the tea-rose hedges and meandering maze gardens;
cathedrals filled with organ music and gold-trim finery,
locked-up jewels and phantom footsteps echoing, hauntingly familiar.
Yet, the truth is that we never really did fit in, did we, my Lady Destiny?
No, but we wanted to believe it so badly, that sometimes
we caught ourselves humming meaningless sonnets and Latin prayers,
distractedly under our breaths, walking like Egyptian pharaohs; young gods
and goddesses, teenage rulers of indestructible kingdoms.
Lorraine, you and I made quite an odd pair, for sure,
but still, I instantly answered your question with one of my own;
wondering out loud, “Where else would I be?”

Indeed, you fell from a cliff and almost drowned;
that's what I told you, darling, how I'd waded through
the early spring chill, the gray-green waves, and pulled you out.
I swore that I couldn't just leave you behind;
that I couldn't just turn my back and walk away,
climb up on my gypsy stolen horse and ride away,
as the April sun shone brighter in the marble-clear blue sky above.
And for a moment, you didn't say anything; you were
perhaps remembering the last time we saw each other at court,
when we were both dry and comfortable, both decked out in warm finery
and not at all desperate to survive, desperate to win back
some of kind of dignity and favor from the angels;
patron saints of lost and foolish souls, if not from our parents.
Yes, girl, you knew m,e but time stood still then..
It was almost like you were deciding whether or not
asking questions about our coincidental meeting,
our ill-fated run-in and complicated history; an undocumented past in the castle,
was worth bringing up in a not-so-casual conversation,
after everything that had transpired there, in this
peasant-inhabited and still charming part of the country.

“Oh but I would rather you didn't,” I was about to say.
“Please don't ask me anything out of the ordinary.”
Because there was nothing ordinary about our situation,
I knew that I could get away with being silent because;
for once, nobody had the right to judge me.
And truth be told, I felt like being snarky then; slightly disrespectful,
saying something that would label me a cad, for sure;
an illegitimate bastard with no manners or values at all,
with nothing to distinguish myself from a pine-wood wolf,
from a barbaric knave, exactly the type of creature that
people back home had never failed to remind me that I was.
Indeed, they all thought that I would end up just like this;
a runaway youth with no respect for the law, with no common sense
or voice, no clear conscience hiding beneath my seemingly wealthy
and well-fed, well-grown and dressed-to-the-nines, fake courtier appearance.

Yet, when I looked into your wide cedar-brown eyes,
I realized that you weren't at all like the other nobles who mocked me silently
behind their ostentatious peacock-feather fans;
behind their pearl-lace handkerchiefs and glasses of warm port cider, no.
Girl, you actually regarded me with serious understanding,
and this stopped me from making a fallen-dove joke or lying shamelessly
because I didn't think it would be fair, considering the astonishing fact that
you were now trusting me with your entire life on the line.
Yes, and so; I told you my secret, why I left the castle,
left a seemingly comfortable and worry-free lifestyle with an almost decent family.
I told you that my mother had begged me to leave; to run,
saying that there were spies watching my every move,
planning to harm and later dispose of the threat that I had unknowingly become
as a child of mixed heritage; both of noble and outlaw gypsy blood,
unlikely to ascend to any kind of high-ranking status,
yet still, not completely innocent and guiltless.
Unexpectedly, you placed a hand on my forearm then.
After my confession; Lorraine, you said,
“No matter what happens, I'll make sure that you get out of here alive.
No matter what; even if I don't reach my own destination, friend,
I promise that I'll find you a clear path away from all the lies and accusations;
the mapped-out violence and strategic threats
that may have followed you up until now.
I'll make sure that no one ever lays a hand on you,
never finds your hiding-spot and drives a bayonet through your chest,
impales your warm September heart,
as though it were nothing but rabbit meat,
meant to be roasted and gobbled up by greedy-eyed goblins over hellfire.”

Oh I told you, while shaking my head and smiling slightly,
“Honestly, my lady, you can really paint a macabre picture,
when you put your imagination to work!”
And I held my breath, not knowing if you would get upset
and demand my head on a plate, for what I had just said.
But instead of shouting at me in disgust or fury, you simply laughed.
Tucking a lock of mahogany hair behind your one ear, you casually
drew my eyes to the freckle on your neck, a tiny plum-colored dot
on your otherwise clear expanse of buttermilk-toned flesh.
And you seemed unaware of how you were affecting me, darling; and
and so, I diverted my gaze quickly as you agreed that your words were
indeed cynical, despite your intentions being all mercifully good.

All through the night, it rained heavily, then slowed,
the winds only whistling like ghosts; eerie songs as old as time,
as ancient as stone and mortar, brick and thatched cottage rooftops,
notwithstanding the silver-needle season's upcoming storm.
All through those fragile and unpredictable hours, we huddled together on the window-seat,
with a thick bearskin wrapped around our shoulders, watching the sky
outside turn charcoal-gray, as though we weren't at all
nervous and worried about our plans, our futures;
so easily changeable and sometimes impossible to believe in, fully.
Oh you were scared and you weren't too proud to admit it, usually;
but that evening, you held your tongue, refusing to scream at the sound of lightning
crashing against the wall of rain outside, like cymbals clashing,
like a Greek god's angry symphony of scorned muses with their siren-stringed instruments.
Yet, still; you didn't make a sound as you leaned back against my chest,
rested your head against my shoulder and let me pretend
that I was worthy of your summer-warm and inviting touch,
that I was noble enough to hold you in my arms, Lorraine.

But the truth was that I was never the ideal portrait of a romantic hero;
a prince, a soldier, even; painted in gold and purple and blue;
all holy royal colors, decorating the pages of storybooks read aloud to little girls
by their nannies and doting parents, just before bedtime.
Oh I'm sure that you were once just like those tiny princesses;
with flowers and seashells braided in your hair, dreaming of
a proper church wedding and love that will last longer than your Byzantine century,
following you all the way to your grave and keeping watch,
just like the angel with the flaming sword, guarding the entrance of the Garden of Eden.
Oh we both knew that I couldn't be that for you, even though
neither of us had the nerve to admit it out loud yet; how
I could never be a pure-blooded monarch because I was born out of wedlock, my mother,
a mistress; a favorite of the king but still a heathen, by a Catholic priest's standards.
We heard it all the time; gossip, back home in Versaille,
filthy tales illustrating my mother as a whore,
whispered by courtiers who loved to tear each other apart with words,
as well as jewel-studded daggers and butter-knives.
Lorraine, we always pretended not to hear, always ignored the facts;
the sad and lonely truth that even though I was privileged
to a certain degree of immeasurable wealth,
compared to peasants and luckless, shoe-less soldiers;
still, I lacked real friends who would defend me,
without being promised anything in return,
who would not label me a sinner; a mongrel, due to my mother's reputation.
I only had you, girl, and one other person;
your betrothed, the dauphin, the true heir to the throne, to call my comrades in court.
And yet, I felt like I was betraying you both,
and so; I held my tongue when you thanked me for saving your life;
when you pressed a kiss to my jaw line and whispered,
your eyes fluttering half-closed with sleep;
your voice merely a whisper, that I made you not feel alone.

Oh but when we heard that he was sick, the next morning,
we rushed back to a home that we had both abandoned.
And you were welcomed, of course, despite it all,
because you were still a monarch, still a lady and a bride-to-be.
I, on the other hand, was seen as a fiend, a traitor and almost sentenced to death.
Lorraine, once again, you spoke up on my behalf,
prevented the sword of authority and jealousy from crashing down over my head.
Lorraine, even though I am eternally grateful,
you told me; as we both stood outside the throne-room later, “Boy, don't thank me..
You saved my life when I fell from a cliff and almost drowned in the river.
I am simply repaying a debt.”
And for what it's worth, we both understood in the meaningful silence that followed,
that some debts can never be repaid because we were both sinners,
quietly longing for things we could never have in our teenage hearts;
red strings tied around our throats,
choking us and preventing our true feelings from rising to the surface,
our lips from taking shape around those damning, yet, truthful words.
We were both longing for the kind of freedom that we could not own,
could never afford to buy with countless strings of pearls or gold-silver coins.
We were lusting for firelight memories;
corset ties coming undone, bare shoulders and timid, yet, excited glances;
mahogany and cedar brown hair dripping raindrops, and the rush of a season
dying on the hearth, heat burning freckles
and rosy marks on devastatingly youthful and cheekbones.
We had both wanted that, Lorraine, in a wild moment of surrender;
a quick-tempered farewell to rules and regulations,
decorum be damned, when we thought to ourselves:
“I've got nothing left to lose, so why not dive right in?”
But that all changed when you woke up and heard the rumors in the town square;
when you received the news that our prince was ill,
and you realized that you could not kiss me and not feel guilty, not think of him.

Because he was my brother; my own flesh-and-blood,
I got up, as well, mounted the tan-colored horse I had ridden
out of the ancient city of my birth,
and followed you down the path that would lead us back home.
Though you looked surprised, girl, when you saw me at your side, you didn't say a word;
and I appreciate that, how you seemed to understand that
no matter what had or hadn't happened between us, the other night in the countryside,
we both had a higher purpose now, to serve the same young king.
Yes, for all intents and purposes, my heart would always belong to you in secret.

We never spoke of our time together after that, Lorraine;
we never mentioned our failed escape-plan or the map we still had of Scotland
tucked neatly in the knapsack that I hid in the stables,
the evening that we arrived back at the castle.
By dusk, you were with the king; you were with your beloved by his bedside
where you belonged, helping the royal physicians nurse him back to health.
And I was awaiting judgment in the court of my merciless power-hungry father,
later taken to the tower, facing charges of treason and
accepting imprisonment as a welcome punishment,
as opposed to a god-appointed monarch's sword.
Girl, you still fought to get me out of that dark and rain-damp cell,
but I wanted to tell you to stop, to save your voice
for more worthy causes, such as the fate of your people in Scotland;
your home-country, because the truth is that
you had no clue of the full extent of my guilt.
I was afraid that if you did know, girl, that perhaps
you would be so disgusted and appalled by my treacherously dark thoughts;
how much I thirsted for your summer-ripe lips on mine,
that you would never want to see me again.
Oh honestly, I could handle losing you as a bride,
but not as a friend, I knew for sure; and so,
I bit my tongue and kept my true feelings quiet, the remaining threads of
my tearing pride guarded, like it was the only thing I owned.

But of course, you would never let me rot in prison
because you were too kindhearted and honest, deceptively fair.
You came forward and told my brother everything,
all the details of our short stay in that cliff-side village;
how we were only there long enough for your weak and tired body to recover
after that nasty Doom's Day fall, and how
nothing happened between us to make us guilty of betrayal and fornication,
in the all-seeing eyes of the Catholic church.
Oh my brother believed you and pardoned me,
by morning, ordering the guards to release me from my chains,
but of course I was disgraced; of course I had to win back his praise,
his trust, slowly, even though I had no right
to stand before him and still complain.
I had no right to anything, really, but my own misplaced Burgundy pride;
and even that was dwindling in the light of dawn,
like sand in an hourglass, thinning, disappearing
like a phantom's icy breath on the back of my neck.
Oh Lorraine, you were still that exact whisper of fragile happiness,
loyalty stronger than desire or anything mortal;
and my brother was the crown, the cross, the bronze and rose-gold blood
that I had sworn to protect, even before
I had grown to full adult height and stature,
even before I had learned to form proper sentences with naturally lying lips
and an adolescent voice that cracked on the loneliest syllable.
Oh of course; I couldn't have you both,
Lorraine, and that was the whole truth of it.
I could either be a traitor or your your unnamed knight
who didn't really care about honor when he was kneeling before you, blessed
by the faith that your carob-brown eyes had
always shone upon only the luckiest of fools.

Oh girl, you could say you loved him unconditionally and not be haunted
by unrealized dreams of countryside rebellion,
gypsy dances and raw honest-to-god conversations by candlelight.
Lorraine, You could store my letters in a cabinet,
file away our could-have-been story-line for another lifetime;
but I, on the other hand, would always be reminded of that midday
sunlit hour of disappointment, of regret, when you told me that
we had to let go of what we could have had, for the good of our family and friends.
Oh you were right, of course; and I had no choice but to concede..
Dispelling dreams of you at dusk was easier said than done,
but someone much wiser than both of us once said that no matter how strong our loyalty,
fierce our affection or devotion; fiery the passion behind our eyelids,
we still have to remind ourselves that we don't belong to people forever.
No, darling; sooner or later, the clouds in the sky
above our fairy-tale castle will start to darken,
even without our noticing; and it will be time to blow out the candle,
to close all the windows, to say goodbye or goodnight,
whichever phrase leaves the best impression for all the holy seekers
of light and eagle-winged angels in the afterlife.

You experienced this when his hand slipped from your grasp,
when he collapsed after an afternoon horseback ride in the woods.
You held him there; inside a cathedral of cedar trees,
on a ground laden with crinkled bronze and orange leaves.
You cradled your prince in your arms, Lorraine; you called for help,
trying to steady his ragged breathing by stroking his cheek.
You did all the right things, but in the end, he was the one
who told you stop fighting against Fate and chance, heaven and everything.
He said, “No prayer or sacrifice, mortal substitute, can undo what has been
predestined by something supernatural long ago.”
Oh girl, you were shaking your head, still refusing to believe
that that was how your story would end; that was how
you would lose your first love, with blood-stained sleeves and
hot tears burning your eyes, to the point that your vision was blurry,
that you couldn't see how fragile your knight in shining armor suddenly looked;
how out-of-place the white-yellow poppies on the ground were,
clinging to the earth and calculating rain for a later time..
Oh nothing made sense in that moment; all you knew was that
you couldn't let him ago, not even when he whispered his last words.
Oh to you he said, you'd tell me later, “I want you to know that
all I ever wanted was to make you happy because you make me
wish for sunlight every single morning, even in the dead of winter.
You were always near, not just as a comforting presence,
but also as a guiding light; a flame that refused to quit burning,
no matter how bleak or cold the night that surrounded us was."
And you told me that he smiled widely for a second, that
he looked up at the sky and said, “Oh I wonder what I did right,
what I did to deserve you as my bride,
a fearless and merciful angel an unmistakable beauty by my side.
Rest assured, my queen, I'll ask God that very question, if or when I get to heaven.”
Oh he also said that he wished for you to marry again,
that he wished for you to move on with your days on earth and smile and do great things
in honor of the free-spirited child you once were,
remembering the day that you met him by the seashore, nine years ago.
Yet, all you could register in that moment was
the shock and pain of watching his eyes close;
of feeling as though a huge and invisible piece of yourself had been ripped off,
leaving your body hollow and soulless, even as
screams and sobs wracked your form, rattled your bones,
underneath the elegant brocade of your riding clothes.

And I wasn't there, but I can imagine it, for sure;
his fading legacy, your lover's, but he wasn't entirely yours.
No, truthfully; I am reluctant to point it out now,
but his grave was not the lily-white cradle of your arms,
no matter how much you longed to sink down into the dirt;
into the blood-stained ground beside him and lie there,
never to be dug back up and resurrected,
made to breathe summer night air again.

When I stumbled back to the castle, your eyes were
glazed over and you were stumbling,
even though you didn't have a limp or any sign of injury.
And I caught you at the foot of the staircase leading up to your bedroom;
and I stayed with you, Lorraine,
long after the burial attendants came and took our prince's body away.
After you had shed all the tears that your body had
saved up over the years just for this day,
you stared blankly at the dried blood on your hands.
And though I knew my place; I was still a bastard
with no real church-blessed claim to the throne,
with no right to stand so close to you, my lady,
to say your name with so much careless familiarity,
with so much shameless concern and longing..
Yet, still, I decided to forgo all rules of decorum, to say
“Damn it all!” to everything that had been
trying to keep us apart up until then because
seeing you there; looking so broken,
not even wearing a tiara, no evidence of wealth or stature,
I realized that even royal, you weren't any less human.

Oh that is why I sat down beside you on the last step of the staircase
and encircled you in my arms, girl,
let you press your cheek against my shoulder
and whisper his name to no one in particular.
If that was all you needed, then I was happy to give you all the time
in the world to mourn the friend that we had both lost,
our defender, leader; something like a St. Michael,
prepared for battle always with his fire-lit sword,
prepared to defy all forms of darkness, even the invisible demons that
humans create when they feel like they have nothing left to lose.
Oh yes, without a doubt; he was the one worth fighting for,
if there ever was a king so honorable.
And it isn't really the crown that makes you a monarch in the end,
we find out later that it is the sacrifices you make for your country,
for your people, for even the right to wear that precious crown
that define you as admirable or conceited;
whether you will still feel proud at the end of the day, despite
the weight of the jewels on your forehead.

Yes, I think; in that moment, we were both praying to the same holy ghost,
the same unnamed angel unlike all the ones we'd seen painted in churches
or standing tall in all of their marble glory, in cemeteries and tea gardens;
no, we were both thinking of something else, something new
and indestructible with the blinding light of a modern age in its topaz eyes,
when we asked for strength to make it through all the pain and
anguish of that earth-shattering, heart-wrenching, soul-tearing moment.
Oh whether royal or peasant; blue-blooded or illegitimate; noble or cast-off,
we were both kneeling on the floor of a makeshift temple in that instant,
with our heads bowed, not knowing what else to do but admit that we were
frozen in our numbness, in our still startled grief and wanted
to feel warm and alive again, like August sun-rays
reflected on the surface of a swan-bed fairy-tale lake.
Oh yes, Lorraine, equals we were, never having been anything less.

And you dropped your prayer beads at one point, darling,
the same ones that you brought with you as a child, traveling alone,
across the stormy-gray ocean from your native home in Scotland.
Reaching for my hand in silence, you didn't have to look into my eyes
to know that my thoughts and fears; my hopes, were the same as yours.
If we were going to survive this moment of confusion and shock,
overcome this dreadful loss, this traumatic season;
then, we first had to admit that we couldn't do it alone,
that we couldn't stand and fight as individuals,
when so much of our time had already been wasted
on a cold and hazy morning, shivering with no real reason.
Yes, darling, I think we were both thinking of innocence;
like the memory of our golden-haired king; still
small and reckless, chasing rabbits in the forest.
Darling, we were thinking of finding an angel with tiny fairy wings,
holding it in our cupped hands like a candle flame
or a glowing lightning bug, and asking this baby saint
for the chance to start again, for the desire to stay
and mend the pieces of our shattered meadow-lark faith.
Lorraine
songs:
Cement- Nichole Dollanganger
Youth- Daughter
Angel by the Wings- Sia
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One Monday morning, before the dawn's sunflower light casts its shadow
over my clay-toned features, I wake up to a curtain of silver rain,
falling gracefully outside my window; and your ghost is there,
materialized, floating; see-through, over the balcony.
But the strangest thing about your sudden appearance is actually
your wings, so iconic for a non-haloed being, dove-white and ever so bold,
taking up space and announcing your arrival
as always a heaven-sent; goddamn half-bird-half-human, star-skinned child.
Yet now, they are nowhere in sight; your wings, that is, boy;
I can't help but notice right away how they are suddenly missing.
And sitting up in my large bed, I feel the cold and empty spaces around me,
as I watch your phantom press a hand against the glass bordering my bedroom.
I find my lips forming the forbidden shape of your name, but no sound comes out.
And before I can gather up the courage to call out to your impossibly
shimmering silhouette, you are already gone, vanishing in the thinning mist.

So I lie back down, feeling defeat like a knife twisting in the pit of my stomach,
but I contend myself with the knowledge that you weren't there at all,
that it was just a horribly sweet dream; because these days,
it's just how I carry on, boy; with your memory held only at an arm's length,
only a few safe and careful steps away from me.

Oh but I can imagine your laugh now, bubbling up in your throat;
all husky like an adolescent's first-ever declaration of love,
nervous and charming, driving me crazy with unrequited want.
You would have said, if you were here, “Last time I checked,
'safe and careful' aren't words that you were familiar with.”
Yes, you would've teased me mercilessly about my often impulsive
and scandalous behavior; my notorious history with romance,
and I would have enjoyed it, greatly.
But in the end, I would've been forced to tell you the truth;
that out of a long and often forgotten string of partners,
you are still the one capable of hurting me the most.
Friend, rest assured that this is why I would rather not recall
how it happened, how we got here to this place;
in this frightening in-between space, being invisible, yet not quite;
being able to touch and prick our fingers on thorns, still feel pain
and bleed; just like ordinary mortal, flesh-and-blood soldiers.

Boy, if you're out there, somewhere; among the birds and angels,
the jet planes flying over Central Park, then,
I must say that you are a cruel little whisperer of secrets, aren't you?
I want to be angry, believe me; but I cannot
allow myself that priceless luxury, when you are now dead and gone..
I love you, as always, but it doesn't matter anymore, does it?
Oh no, because; truth be told, you have always loved one other person more,
and though it is torture, having to admit it,
I guess it's also just a plain and simple fact;
that, darling, a part of me would have never measured up..
Oh angel, I want to be furious with you for not
giving yourself up completely to me, on account of this other person,
this ghost from your past; but I can't, darling,
because I find that I am eternally grateful for
all the time that you did gift me with, for every piece of your form
that you stripped bare and let me marvel at, in all its raw blue,
stainless-glass color; the truth that made you so real, like the inside of a vein,
open and bleeding out, so fearlessly exposed to the idea of a love
once buried beneath the rubble and dust of a lava-scorched empire by the sea.

Darling, I would never want to erase those precious and earth-shattering,
stinging wasp-summer memories; those pictures of us, reflected through
the rain-spotted windows of East-side pubs, store-fronts and jazz clubs,
where we used to order bourbon-on-the-rocks, pretending to be gangsters
from another era, entirely; one where we would meet up in clandestine hideouts,
just for the sake of saying that we were defying the odds,
challenging stereotypes; playing pool and devil's cards,
flirting behind subtle parlor tricks,
with gleaming smoke-and-mirror type, not-so-modest grins.

And truth be told; the first time I saw you, boy,
I wondered, “Oh lord, does he know that we bleed the same?
Does he know that we feel the same exact pain,
even though; on the outside, we are completely different?”
Yes, indeed; I wondered this at the time because
with my dark and more alien features, my sepia-colored flesh,
spiked plumb-black hair and topaz oriental eyes,
I bet you wouldn't think that we could be anything alike, from a distance.
There's no use in denying it; how at first, you did see me as the enemy, boy,
in the back of your mind, where you were taught such vile things by your superiors;
you believed that it was your divine right to kill me,
to drive a dagger into my chest, to burn me in a mock-explosion; deemed victorious,
deemed honorable and patriotic, all of the things that
made a perfect Anglican church-crowned warrior-prince.
Oh boy, believe me when I say that; once or twice,
I wished that I could have hated you, as well..
Yes, only based on your lineage, your family's purposeful mistakes;
I wanted to call you out on the hypocrisy linked to your sunset-clan name
because I felt self-righteous, because I felt betrayed and didn't want to see you as
someone who I would be grateful for, one day.
Oh believe; this thought was just as scary as falling in love with death, I'm sure..

And you know that it was already a tragedy, from the beginning;
yet, still I'll admit in this late night-lock soiled hour of selfish sin,
that there was a time when the very thought of getting close to me repulsed and terrified you,
even though you did your best to hide your true emotions, your nerves;
that fluttery butterfly-wing sensation in the pit of your otherwise empty stomach.
Oh my young-blood hope, fair-skinned soldier; you did your best to hide your fears, to mask
the uncertainty in your cerulean eyes,
when we first spoke on the balcony, outside my garden-gate loft; when you realized
that I really had no ill intentions,
despite having the upper-hand in that situation, having picked you up off the ground
and carried you inside my usually locked house.
In the middle of the night, angel,
you were shot down from an unmarked rooftop; and you were wounded, almost unconscious,
bleeding out Hyacinth petals and ichor black sweat,
salt and absinthe tears at my feet.
I patched you up, even though I didn't have to;
and even though I was most likely endangering my own life, in the process.
But there was just something about you that made me go through with it;
the healing process, cleaning up the gory wounds,
the rips and tears that you got from that nasty fall,
an unexplained occurrence that quite literally landed you on my doorstep,
looking like something so out of the ordinary; perhaps
from a Viking legend, that it made me blink twice.
Oh even though we were supposed to be rivals, I had to admit, friend, that
two days later; when you opened your eyes, that I was unreasonably grateful.

Yeah, I used to be very good at guessing games, my wayward lover.
I used to be good at making predictions, as well as resolutions
and sticking to them, anticipating other people's reactions and
believing in the things that the world had to offer, while trying
not to resent this cloak-and-dagger universe for what it was holding back,
keeping guarded, restrained and altogether locked away from creatures
of sinister origins and purple magic rings; beings of mythical realities
and thorn-field wonderlands, creatures just like me.
But then; unexpectedly, I crossed paths with a child of circumstance,
a son of man with a Grigori half smile plastered on his alabaster face,
a student of cathedral art and Battle Royale swordplay;
all those strange and fantastical, eerie subjects.
And all that I knew before then just fell away, like amaranth leaves
falling from unlucky spring-born cherry trees.

Now, boy, I am just somebody trying to reconcile himself
with something that won't ever return; something
that was marked forbidden, from the beginning, not that it matters now..
Now, between half-empty bottles of voodoo potions and stale whiskey,
train whistles and persistent late winter wind-storms,
in a dull lavender urban afternoon, I am just a fool who thought he was
too cold or hard to break; too rough around the edges,
wearing rhinestones and dragon scale-adorned jacket sleeves,
believing to be just too free-spirited and ruthless to care about
the sudden absence of bad raven-luck romance in his life.
Oh yes, evidently; now, between a glass-half-empty sunset and Shinto paper prayers,
darling, I am really just a lonely sinner, trying to redeem himself
at the foot of Eros's statue, in a cemetery for fallen and mostly forgotten artists;
a demon-king's accidental spawn, just trying to be somewhat noble.

But of course, my mind drifts back to the most meaningful moments
in our relationship, our short-lived history, boy;
and I can't help but recall the week after I found your injured body on my doorstep,
after I healed you and set you free, as one does
with a tiny house-wren or bluebird that has broken its wing.
I remember how we were both summoned to the same place; an abandoned factory,
for very different reasons, one starless evening.
You were on a mission, assigned by your commanding officers;
a legion of armed and dangerous Apollo-guided angels, beings
with lead and forbidden-fruit poison in their copper-rose blood,
to snuff out a group of underlings in their own meeting spot,
find out what they were plotting and arrest them, without trial.
I, on the other hand, was there because my friends needed me;
because they were scared and wanted to know how and when they would be forced
to defend themselves against an unlawful court, whether that may be with magic,
weapons, or words of seemingly pointless, yet, still hellfire-raw truth.
Yes, it was pure and unadulterated, cruel irony;
the inevitable consequence of trusting and getting close to the enemy,
thinking that maybe, just maybe things wouldn't end so badly this time,
that Fate would actually show mercy to cage-free circus doves like us.

Popping out of a magician's hat, snow and sand-tipped feathers everywhere;
my people was often studied by heartless and immoral scientists, gawked at
and spoken about in hushed tones, seldom considered allies to the human “purists”,  
never publicly honored and always labeled as freaks.
But that night, darling, it seemed that; for once, heaven was on our side..

Yes, angel, you swooped down over us as we were assembled
in that makeshift meeting-house, a closed factory
in the lower and seedier part of Manhattan.
With your team right behind you; your equally zealous warrior siblings,
friend, you were prepared for a battle then, with your bow and arrows,
your quiver strapped to your rapidly healing shoulders.
But still, you let me go then..
Unexpectedly, you showed me mercy; and when I asked you why later,
you muttered, while holding my gaze
with those painfully honest and piercing cobalt-blue eyes of yours,
“Because; contrary to popular belief,
I am actually different from others of my kind.”
Oh boy, I am embarrassed to admit this,
but it is the god-honest truth; that that was the night when I realized
that I could bet on you and not lose face,
lose hope with my pocketfuls of western fool's gold,
that you were understanding and trustworthy, after all.

Oh you have to know now, boy, that I am trying to hold onto
every significant moment from the past few years because
you know all too well how abnormal my mind has always been,
when it comes to memories; how I can't help the ebb and flow of time,
like a stubborn and irrepressible sea; a peridot ocean,
flooding my 400-year old brain, drowning out everything else,
all flashing images of ice-tipped waves crashing against boulders and cliff-sides,
swallowing entire cities and turning castles to rubble as
they sink to the bottom of its sand and coral reef floor.
Oh boy, you know that I would rather keep your portrait forever alive
in my serpent-green mind's eye, than carry around a box of souvenirs
from our earlier dates; late weekend photos,
restaurant receipts and back-alley fortunes,
Shinto and Buddhist talismans that never really offered our strange love
the protection that it so rightfully deserved, in spite of everything.
Oh indeed, my far-off blue-eyed flame, I do recall one of our old arguments so clearly;
how you kept insisting that you didn't want
one of the arrows from your tattered and war-torn quiver to be the last remaining proof
that you were once present in my life, that you were once important in some way to me.
And at the time, I told you that there was no other way,
that I was immortal, so obviously, you would be gone before me;
and as much as I wished to God that it was enough, I knew that most likely, my memory
of our time together would fail me and I would one day
need that physical proof, after all.
Oh darling, you have no idea how much I wish I hadn't snapped at you, that day;
you have no idea, no way of knowing now,
but I actually wish that I hadn't said a word..
Yes, I wish I hadn't kept that godforsaken and still forbidden acacia-wood box
within your reach; I wish I had given you no reason to doubt, reason to lose hope in me.
Oh can you forgive me, if I bow down before the stars tonight,
instead of some crucifix martyr or blue-skinned child deity,
holding a bow almost identical to yours, darling?
Would you really accept my apology for that time before;
when you were here, so impossibly close?
And would you answer me if I prayed, not inside a church,
but outside in a field of tulips, instead; because
sometimes, I swear that you're still floating in mid-air,
between an immortal heron-blue sky and this hard leather-brown earth that I'm standing on..

I guess some people might say that if I hadn't explained it to you then;
how this cursed immortality works,
I would've been coddling you as one does with a toddler,
making you believe that there are no real monsters in the world;
that justice is tangible and always precise,
that it will prevail over evil, every time.
And I don't think you would have liked that one little bit, friend; if I had
treated you like a child, spoken to you, as if you were incapable
of understanding that the world is not as black-and-white as you were taught
to believe it is, on the faded yellow, outdated pages of Grimm storybooks.
Darling, I would've been doing your conscience and intuition a disservice,
for sure; I would've been taking you for granted, and honestly,
after all the wicked things I've done in my countless past lives,
that would have probably been the worst one..
Or at least, I know now that if I had lied to you, then I would
have never been able to forgive myself; to live
with this sun-and-shadows face staring back at me in the mirror.
And wouldn't that have been such an excruciating and depressing existence?
Yes, for this reason, I'm so glad I took your hand later on;
after we had reconciled on the night when we were both so distraught;
told you that, like it or not, sometimes living in the moment is the best we can do.
“And also, I love you..”

Looking into your eyes, I thought, “There, I said it.
Now, break me apart, angel of Judgment Day mercy!
Oh what does it matter, when all of my pretenses have dropped;
this armor now completely see-through and my chest wide open,
my flawed Classical era heart still beating with half-breed blood,
all there; raw, for the taking?”
Oh I wanted you to know that I predicted that even eons from now,
I would still be holding onto your memory,
but nobody is perfect, and that doesn't make you any less worthy.

No, darling; when you were around, I was focused on making every moment
look and feel magical; breathless, so that
you would never doubt our connection,
but in this moment, I must confess that I don't feel as brave as I sounded
when I was quoting Neruda's last poems to you in bed,
while trailing my fingers through your hair as you dozed beside me,
the moonlight only partially outlining the curve of your jaw and cheekbone.
Oh no, I'm not even fully human, but I guess;
in that moment, I did feel pretty damn fragile,
and perhaps we were only as close as two warm-blooded
males with clockwork hearts would ever be.

Oh I can't stop thinking about your bloodline,
glittering in your crescent veins; forbidden,
making your heart unattainable to most, and how;
by some present-day holy-ground miracle,
you let me be the one to reach out and touch it,
with my onyx-and-gold painted fingertips,
splayed across your ivory skin, feeling that steady hunter's beat
beneath my palm, while my other hand
wrapped around the back of your neck,
warming up to the electric temperature of your racing pulse.
And even as you inched closer, willingly
accepting the pressure of my mouth against yours with an eagerness
that was, quite frankly, sinful; even then,
in the back of my mind, I knew that it was stupid but I still worried
that if I showed you the full extent of my inherited gifts; my father's mark on me,
then you would be frightened and distrustful, friend, all over again..
Oh, and yet, no more wide-eyed like a deer in the headlights,
I found it hard to pretend that I did not want to lose myself in your cobalt-blue
wildfire touch, be completely free and fearless again.

It was such a strange slow burn at first, wasn't it, darling?
I remember how my beaded and silver necklaces brushed against your collarbone
as I leaned over your form, pressing your shoulders down on the mattress,
capturing your lips with my own in a dizzying frenzy
that I hoped would match the intensity of your excitement from before..
And the way we danced around each other, darling;
in our ashen gray and black ripped jeans, our leather jacket sleeves
and gladiator-inspired armor, was so frustrating
and dumb, but in the end; it did work out, even though  we were too stubborn
and afraid to admit it, even to ourselves.
But even so, our eyes; two completely different colors, were glowing
with the same hidden campfire spark,
so comforting in its fearlessness, excited to finally surrender and
shine from the inside out of our coiled-to-perfection, twenty-something year old frames.

Darling, I know that it was genuinely intense;
that first time when you said those three little words,
standing at the foot of the staircase, outside of your parents' home,
with the daylight so stark; silver-and-gold overhead, and the weight
of a terrifying night still balanced precariously on your shoulders, boy.
And regardless, even these simple and seemingly inconsequential moments;
like whenever we would sit on my couch, listening to Jazz on the radio
and I would lazily run my fingers through your teak-colored hair,
it was still the happiest I had ever been, I swear..

In fact, do you remember how I promised to take you to Jakarta one day,
to show you where I was born, where I was raised by a young mother,
gone too soon; where I fought demons and left behind
a village of hungry ghosts, all before the age of twelve?
Yes, I guess now, you'll never see it then..
You'll never see those temples, friend; the coconut palm sailboats
floating down streams as crystal-clear and blue as your eyes,
the balmy vanilla bean nights and fast-paced, multi-cultural lined streets.
It all lies untouched, unrealized, undiscovered; broken dreams
like Turn of the Century china, chipped and fading, unfinished stories on yellowing paper,
ink-blotted wishful-thinking in our forever dormant imaginations.
Little darling, I miss you so much, but even I know
that no one had a hand in making you so goddamn radiant!
You just were truly that; noble, kindhearted and brave,
saintly knighted, all by your lonesome.

I can never get back what a mortal realm has taken away..
I realized this awhile back, long before I opened
the wrought-iron gates surrounding my vintage heart again;
but you know something, darling?
It never really prepares you for that moment; the knowledge
that you are cursed and will always reincarnate,
until the heavens get sick of you and finally let your close your eyes
and rest in peace, while your lovers all die, one by one;
some from natural causes, others by the hand of greed and violence,
discrimination and silent self-loathing.
In the end, it hits you hard every time; that last goodbye,
whispered in secret, behind garden walls,
shouted from the rooftops of whatever city you're living in currently;
Fate always making it yours with an unofficial copper-rose seal,
a New Year's Eve dragon door-knocker, a never permanent home-sweet-home.

Oh but you found me in all of your hideaways, friend.
You had a habit of stumbling into my space, unannounced;
and yet, I never wanted to hear those mumbled apologies,
those rapidly made-up, careless excuses for after-midnight visits.
No, angel of mine, I only wanted you here in my arms..
And you used to say that I was the one who came along, unexpectedly,
sneaking up behind you and catching you off guard.
But the truth is that I was the one who surrendered first.
Yeah, I was the fool who boarded the door of his heart up overnight,
who had grabbed a knife and casually twirled it in his hand,
contemplating suicide but not actually knowing how to go through with it,
while both demons and angels warred and shouted inside his head.
Boy, I was the one who swore never to fall in love again,
to pack up and leave before a relationship got too serious, too scary and addictive.
After the most painful betrayal I had ever experienced left me
bitter and afraid of trusting anyone ever again,
I was at the end of my rope, for sure; when you emerged
like a phoenix from a sea of West Indies lava,
fixed me with those intense cobalt-blue eyes of yours,
letting me know, subconsciously, that I didn't need to poison myself; to self-destruct,
in order to feel alive, that I didn't need to be alone.
Oh darling, you saved me, without even realizing it..
Oh how I wish I could tell you that now!

I wish I could track down your last letter's origins, its whereabouts,
and send a message to your candlelit spirit
as it guards your body in the crypt of long-forgotten saints and warriors;
below the city of mechanical butterflies, in your family's home-country,
the place that your parents insisted you would be buried in.
But, darling, your words got lost somewhere in the void of time and space.
Sadly, if I were to attempt to reach you now,
I would have to cross over this invisible, yet, magnetic line surrounding our worlds;
and risk losing the part of myself that allows me to keep breathing violet
and pure white Edelweiss air, on this here planet earth.
I would have to give up that special magic key that keeps me grounded,
that prevents my body from vanishing completely with the east morning fog.
Oh somehow, darling, I don't believe that you would have wanted that; not for me,
not for anyone that I could offer even the tiniest bit of help to,
in the wake of your sudden and harsh-cold winter passing.

So I remain here, trying to be nothing but completely regret-free;
beneath the cloud-foam castles in the sky and the blinding saffron sun,
just trying to be undeniably and inhumanly brave like you were..
Yes, my shattered heaven is a mirror image of this loss,
but still; I stand here on the ledge of a tilted skyscraper, a relic
of the 1929 stock-market crash, the end of the Great Gatsby's dream
and rags-to-riches prince-pauper legacy;
I pull out your last letter from my black pea-coat pocket, friend.
I let it dissolve in my hand, under red-blue-orange flames of magic;
plain old wickedness, sparks from my fingerprints, the color of raw sugar farewells.
As the paper materializes in the air, that
berry ink-blotted parchment, proof like gold-dust; like your angel wings' final beat,
at the sound of a trumpet call from your solemn-faced superior, Gabriel,
a messenger for the dearly departed; sword-wielding knights, burning-temple saints,
I recognize you as one of those distant and newborn morning-stars, lover.

Now it's time to let go, even though I know that there is a chance that
my memory will slip and slide over the particulars,
the fragile mosaic-painted details of our story.
But still; no matter what, I promise to keep the image
of your timid, yet, brilliant smile alive for as long as I can, darling;
I swear to hold onto the best of what you left me with,
even in my darkest raven-black, forsaken hour.
Boy, I promise to remember you as you were and will always be;
the point of no return for me, a symbol of honesty,
the rarest and most unapologetic, beautiful spirit
that has ever touched these immortal skies,
melting in the rain like a promise made in a fortune-teller's tent;
in a circus that nobody remembers anymore,
traveling from village to village, that priceless moment
when I first believed that I could be fearless and free.
country breakfast
organic oatmeal with cinnamon and blueberries, and a mug of tea.
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I had your name in my head, before I even knew you..
I swear I'd heard it in some strange deja vu moment, a 12 o'clock fantasy;
all sleepy-eyed, pajama-clad legs, crazy-socked feet and
a tangled mess of honey-brown hair draped down my back,
winter night ice-toned fingers rubbing sawdust from my lavender and sunflower lids.
With my stomach growling, almost subtly; perhaps that was me,
when I first stopped to listen to the rain streaming gently
from the chalk-white heavens, outside that unfamiliar apartment;
as I wondered whether I had been there before,
many years ago, in that slippery-glass hallway.
But maybe, you weren't there at all, darling..
Oh maybe it was really just the dream of somebody like you; understanding and calm,
nonjudgmental and oh-so interested in what I had to say,
in listening to all of my favorite songs,
reading all the scraps of homespun poetry that came out of my head; my heart,
too fast and never making it to the publisher's office in time
for his or her morning cup of coffee, for early Sunday magazine-store editing.

Oh but now I'm blubbering, aren't I?
This always happens when we're taking a long drive together,
down another strange and rocky stretch of road, going to any or no particular place.
But that's alright because America is for the wandering; for the lost and searching,
the dreamers, workers, scientists and even the throwaways,
the never satisfied and always hungry cliche-stealing artists.
Despite it all, girl, it's funny how at the start of each brand new day,
we think of ourselves as reincarnated..
Whether that be through metamorphosis or romantic prose, honey,
believe me; the butterflies and ivy vines
tattooed and scribbled on your cream-tinted wrists and ankles are
the only raw images that stay, that can
never be improved, no matter how many wrong-turns we take.

But, honey, you told me once,
“Not everyone has to have a plan.”
Yeah, you claimed, “I had one once, and it fell apart,
crumbled to pieces; like chipped
porcelain teacups and perfectly round plates,
all gone to waste in a garbage-can under the sink.”
Then you continued, “Marriage proposals; it sounded like
a good idea, after high school wore me down
with expectations and meaningless homework,
cheerleader gossip and narrow-minded, beady-eyed teachers.
Just before college, I was still young, but the notion sounded
like growing up; like labeling myself as an adult, finally.”
And, darling, you didn't tell me about how that frosting-pink
and white fantasy faded away so quickly,
even though the photographs remained glossy; all those Barbie
smiles still wide and encouraging, with top-hats
and purple-yellow flowers decorating the pine-wood frames,
surrounding two kids from the Gold Rush mountains.
Honey, you merely sighed, reminiscing.
After a long silence, you murmured,
“But it all became pretend, you know?”
And of course, I did, but not in the exact same way.

I had spent most of my life pretending to be something I wasn't,
but the pretense of it hadn't suddenly occurred, no;
actually, it had existed in the background, since elementary school.
At 21, I finally decided that I'd had enough of this type of suffering;
mental torture and self-hatred, to last one agonizing lifetime,
and that I was ready to say goodbye to the judgment and the shame,
whisper “good riddance” to the constant fear; lurking like a monster,
hiding under my jasmine canopy bed or peeking out
from a crack in the closet door, sneering and waiting
for the right time to crawl across the floor of my teddy-bear bedroom,
climb up on my bed and pull me under, never to be seen again.
Oh I can imagine that sick creature dragging me down to who knows where,
to a skeleton kingdom; filled with all the remains of
red-yellow toy tricycles, baby-doll heads and A-plus report cards.
And I'd bet you anything now that I would have become just like
one of those milk-carton kids who nobody remembers, years from now;
who suffered through nightmarish storms, bearing
see-through scars and stumbling around, direction-less and emotionless..
Or perhaps, honey, I never would have made it back alive,
if they had gotten a hold of me; those starving and heartless
ghosts and specters, terrifying incubus and succubus spirits
with talons and gargoyle wings, shrouded beneath
their all-seeing-eye, light-starched exteriors.

As terrifying as this realization seems, hitting us now
as we sit here; sharing childhood secrets,
it really was a possibility that we have to admit.
Yeah, the very real beings that I grew up fearing
probably would have indeed succeeded in sucking all the innocent
dandelion-air right out of my gingersnap lungs.
But I'm still here, darling; and for all intents and purposes,
I might not be as strong as one of those warrior women
we read about in bedtime nursery-rhymes, but at least, I survived.

And I know that we both feel like sometimes
people just don't want to understand us, don't want to meet us halfway;
in our lowest and darkest moments, not even
ask if we're doing okay or if we're safe.
I know you feel like a liability sometimes, the same way I do;
like nothing you do is ever good enough,
and  the people we care about always end up leaving, anyway;
so why even bother, right?
Oh why do we even bother letting them in, in the first place;
trusting, and then breaking, when they turn their backs on us
and deem our struggles too complicated, too much of a burden
on their square and simpleton minds?
Oh I'll tell you why; because we all want to be accepted in some way,
even by people who aren't worth our space and time.
Despite all of our ramblings about individuality and new-world protests,
in the end, we all crave the same thing; happiness,
whether normal; entitled, drifter-free and non-conforming.
Darling, am I right about this; that one goldenrod horizon is all it takes?

Honestly, I know that the timing is never right,
when it comes to the two of us, darling.
It seems like something is always in the way..
It seems like there's always some other type of calling,
echoing on the other side of a mountain theme-park wonderland,
one that you unknowingly painted in the background of our story.
But if one day, you decide that you don't give a damn anymore
about what other people say or think; about
what they expect from you, honey, then, please give me a call..
It doesn't matter what time of day or night;
I swear I'll drop everything and come running, even at 4 AM,
I'll throw on a snow-bunny white sweater and 1999 ripped grunge jeans.
I'll jump in my car and drive so fast,
it'll feel like I'm flying over these cornfields and apple orchards;  
across the cow-skull desert, to the chipped yet still dazzling
lighthouse coast, where nobody wants to go at this time of year.
Yes, whether it be late September or early November,
it doesn't matter because I'll meet you wherever,
as crazy as it sounds now, writing all of this here.

Oh for you, darling it doesn't always have to make sense.
For you, this feeling just has to be honest;
it just has to be brave and pure in the moment,
nothing marred by regret or tainted with resentment;
all the love that we left buried under sand and wilting cactus blossoms,
in the canyons of a dry-serpent wasteland, back when
we didn't know what the hell to do with ourselves.
But no; for you, honey, I'll try harder to keep calm
during stressful situations; to not fall apart,
for just this one chance to be together again, holding hands; because
I swear, even being miles apart, you still make me not feel so alone.

Just like the alyssium flower; your favorite,
you can withstand both neglect and drought.
Oh if you can do that, honey, even subconsciously; then, I can surely
pull through, hold on for a little while longer, too.
And who knows, really?
Maybe you can meet me in Juneau, Alaska, even;
all the way up there, at the horizon,
where we can watch the Northern Lights take shape
and spill their blue-green-violet hues;
a majestic wonder, across the raven night-sky.
Yeah, we can sit atop the heart of an Inuit colony there,
sipping spruce tea, while commenting on how unbelievable it is that
we're actually here, in one of our all-time favorite places on earth.
Oh silver-rose starlight, it's just a dream, really..
You can always change your mind, of course, darling.

You can say that you would rather stay in a warmer climate
or stick with our original plan, after all.
Oh do you remember what that was, darling?
We made it up on the spot, sketched out on coffee-shop napkins;
with glittery pens, traces of hazelnut and French almond crème,
powdered sugar in the crinkled corners of crisp holiday paper.
You said, “We'll hit the road in some poorly packed van and
travel around the Midwest, then; when we get bored,
we'll climb up the Appalachian mountains, all the way to the East Coast.
Maybe we'll stop in Boston, camp out like beatniks
near a historical landmark or on an apple-green lawn;
all crisp summer-fall fruit, rolling over lush shamrock hills.
We can share a picnic there; with bottles of hard cider and Virginia ham sandwiches,
blackberry tarts, all wrapped up in pink and violet crepe paper on tartan blankets..”
And you left the rest unfinished there, darling.
I don't know if you were waiting for me to pick up where you left off,
with a shiny 1940's Scheafer pen in hand, with
a couple of good wishful-thinking quotes in my head
and your soft bedroom-rock melody
hummed under my Chai tea breath..
Or perhaps, you just wanted the fantasy to stop there; like a cliff-hanger,
like a novel ending left to the reader's imagination,
as frustrating as it is intriguing, claiming that it was all for the best.
And the truth is that, at the time,
I didn't know a single thing about our future, girl, but what I hoped for.

Sometimes in my head, I play it all out, even now;
sometimes I lie in bed, under the country moon's white-silk glow,
streaming in through a crack in my window,
and I paint a vivid picture in my subconscious mind;
with blackberry ink and an angel-feather,
no ballpoint pen because I'm old-fashioned that way, I guess..
Oh I imagine that we may get tired of running around this tilted earth
someday, and we'll finally settle down.
Of course, I don't want to jinx it now,
though; this sweet buttermilk fantasy,
so I won't put too much weight on it, like Cinderella's glass slipper;
delicate and always threatening to break,
on the verge of shattering, revealing weaknesses and past regrets
on an already rain-spotted and slippery marble staircase.
No, I don't want to betray my own confidence, my own self-control;
now new and improved, so I won't say it out loud, darling.
But perhaps in the future, I could be happy and comfortable
with any kind of “normal” that we choose to create for ourselves.
With your hand in mine, I could even say to myself,
“You're strong enough to do this, even if you don't always look the part.”

And no, we're not like everybody else.
We're not like those ladies we see at the supermarket, every Sunday afternoon,
wearing big flowered hats and perfect ice-cake makeup,
buying vegetables and steak to cook for their doctor and lawyer husbands.
We'll never be like the people in Country Living and Home Sweet Home magazines,
but that's just fine by me, darling, I swear.
I'll tell you now that you don't have to wear a white dress, if you don't want to,
because; either way, that cornflower-blue
flame in your eyes will never dim or fade away,
or burn itself out like a Christmas candle in a storefront window,
and that's all that matters to me.
Either way, I truly believe that you'll look daring and unique;
radiant like a mountaintop sunset,
wild and unapologetic in the way it blinds us,
stops time and makes us stand still,
makes us appreciate the moment for what it truly is.
Oh that's you, girl, because you won't let anyone or anything
tear you down or hold you back, keep you imprisoned inside a double-wide trailer,
or even a Colonial red-brick farmhouse.

No, you told me once that back in your hometown in Idaho,
you grew up exploring caves and playing by yourself in the flowering hilltops.
Your dad never gave you the time of day;
and that's the god-honest truth that you told me, darling.
Never having any expectations, he just wanted you out of the way.
And there were also neglectful women, brought in to care for you.
But those stepmothers were in and out of the house,
so fast that in the end, they didn't even leave traces of their Chanel or Lancome
perfume behind in their sandalwood wake.
And that's probably why you married young, left your birthplace
in the Northwest, to get away from all the manipulation
and emotional drama that went on, behind closed doors.
No one can blame you for that, girl, and you're clearly braver
than you give yourself credit for.
Oh listen carefully, my strung-out sojourner blue-jay, I guess
you could say that you're stronger than you will ever know.

And it's funny, isn't it, how; if we really were to get hitched,
the old-fashioned way, we would surely became a spectacle
in the narrow eyes of our picket-fence white neighbors?
Yes, without a doubt, we would turn a couple of heads;
walking down the street hand-in-hand,
inspiring whispers, provoking gossip.
But even then, I would never abandon you, darling.
I would never shy away from your touch, not even in public;
because when you had the opportunity to forget about me and move on,
to go your own way, quite possibly blot me out of your memory,
you chose to, not only stay; but also check in, every single day.
Yes, you actually asked and wondered about me,
making sure that I was some semblance of okay.
And that's more than most people have done, believe me!
It means a lot that you kept writing, across distances and yellow spaces;
that you kept calling to make sure that I wasn't crying
alone, late at night, drowning in half-empty
bottles of cellar wine and antidepressants.
Oh, now what can I say; what can I promise you today,
friend, but that if the roles were reversed, I would do the exact same thing?

I know that some people might say that, at twenty-eight,
I am still so horribly inexperienced and timid.
Perhaps they're right, but the truth is that today, I don't give a damn and
I don't honestly believe that it proves anything about me.
Now, I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't at all worried that you might walk away,
after knowing my deepest and darkest secrets.
I'm only human, after all, and I can't change the past,
no matter how much I wish I could.
But still, darling, I don't care as much about those senseless narrow-minded theories,
as I once did; when I was a teenager,
sitting in the back of a ice-cold classroom, being taught
that vulnerability is nothing but weaknesses,
that I can't afford to happy because
I have too many people to please, because it is just plain
selfish to want that kind of thing.
Oh I'm glad to say that I don't think that way anymore, and
that fucked-up idea doesn't apply to me; to us,
to how you make me feel; so clearly accepted and sure, for the first time in a long while,
inspiring me with the seemingly easy and graceful way that
you're able let all the bad memories go,
dissipate in the breeze like pollen, like rain and snow, stubborn winter's last swan-song.

Oh I can't help but marvel at the way
you're able to rise above your past, darling;
challenging it in a brave and still noble, humble manner.
It's as if those terrible things had happened to a completely different person,
as if it isn't something that you've ever thought about
or attempted to master at all because
it just simply doesn't have power over you, over your thoughts and heart.
And I don't know how you do it, even now,
but the truth is that you make me want to work harder,
to push myself to hopefully one day reach
that same level of seemingly effortless strength.
I guess you could say that you've given me hope,
even when it seems and sounds so utterly insane.

Oh but these plans we make; story-lines that we jot down on late winter nights,
in rooms lightly scented with gardenia and maple,
between sips of creamy eggnog and bourbon, spicy cider and hot chocolate;
staying awake only to chat on the phone and avoid falling asleep
with resentful ghosts chanting inside our heads, from the day before..
Girl, you actually make me wish for one of our earlier encounters;
when we visited that one park, that unofficial campground,
hidden between pine and cactus trees, boulder and bear-caves,
little cool pebble-streams and rope bridges, Medieval-style wells.
Oh I'm sure you remember how we were both lying on the long-stemmed grass,
side-by-side; the warm sun on my neck, creating freckles
where there were none before, on my almost translucent skin.
I was lazily sliding my fingers over the veins in your arms,
feeling like I was rediscovering the thrill of a first-ever crush,
reclaiming an adolescent memory that never was quite as sweet,
quite as raw in its genuine innocence.
And it was in that moment that I realized that it doesn't matter
if nobody understands my past experiences,
if they doubt whether or not I really am this way or if I'm merely confused.
No, nobody else has to see it; how you make me feel, girl;
how much stronger I am because you believed
that I could stand on my own, but you still made the effort
to let me know that I didn't have to..
Honey, for all my poetic ramblings, the truth is that that gift of trust
meant more to me than words could ever express.

So, I just want you to know, in return, that
if you want to set fire to our past; to those dry days in the desert
when we were both wandering around separately, trying to find peace,
trying to find true friendship and loyalty; community,
but never quite getting there, making it that far out into the open
fields of ordinary millennial life..
If you want to cast the ashes of our failures
out to sea or scatter them across the canyons
and plateaus of west Texas; girl, if you want
to pack up all your remaining hopes and dreams, your future goals,
toss them in the back of your car
and drive out of town, leave that barren place
of self-hatred and mistakes for good,
then, I hope you'll call me before you reach the state-line.
Yeah, I hope you'll remember to send me a message,
letting me know where we can meet;
halfway or exactly on the dot, on the map that
you once said would be our compass someday.

Oh I hope that you'll remember me,
before you reach your next star-board destination,
because if you're willing to give this a second chance to blossom;
what we had briefly when we were
both searching for more, for some unnamed kind of freedom;
then, I don't need any other answers, any other plans, darling.
No, I don't need or even want to get strictly better, to mature
into the kind of adult that society deems worthy of happiness;
a mother type of figure with a house and kids, with a dog, no.
Though it's hard to stray from the stereotypical and predictable;
the “safe” and conventional path we were taught to follow,
from a young age, to set out on your own, when it seems like
nobody else is willing to take that journey with you; still,
I've come to realize that I don't need to fit in to be worthy of compassion.
So, if you feel the same way and you want to set all these
past troubles; miseries, aflame with your torch of sweet-grass and acacia wood,
alyssium petals and vines dotting, wrapping themselves around your wrists;
like spring homespun bracelets, girl; if you want to mark this epic day
when you floated away from it all, like an exotic bird with multi-colored wings,
then, why don't you grab your phone from the backseat of your car and call me?
Why don't you call me at sundown, so we can meet up under the same cotton-blue sky,
for once; watch the teal-gray stars glimmer and die in bursts
of scorching Indian Paintbrush maroon heaven, a bright kingdom coming down tonight
over our heads, ending this trifling time so ironically, peacefully..
And then, we can burn together, for once; no regrets or unrealistic expectations
hindering us, making us look bitter, world-weary in our still youthful and pearl-laced flesh.
Oh this time, you and I will fall back together in the long-stemmed goldenrod plains,
darling; we'll sparkle beneath the sheltering glow of a phoenix sun,
hold hands, when there's nothing else left to say,
when closing our eyes and feeling warm is all it takes to be more
than just two girls with empty red-robin cages for hearts.

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autumn-spirit
sharon
United States
Current Residence: Texas
Favourite genre of music: rock
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Mad-Tile-4432 Featured By Owner 1 day ago
Thanks! :+fav:
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autumn-spirit Featured By Owner 1 day ago
you're welcome
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Ephaistien Featured By Owner 2 days ago  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Thank you so much for your support!
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autumn-spirit Featured By Owner 1 day ago
no problem Rose 
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:iconplatycerium:
Platycerium Featured By Owner Edited Sep 7, 2018  Professional General Artist
Thank you for the faves, most appreciative!
Tea House by Platycerium  
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:iconautumn-spirit:
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner Sep 7, 2018
you're welcome
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:iconplatycerium:
Platycerium Featured By Owner Sep 7, 2018  Professional General Artist
:) (Smile) 
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:iconplatycerium:
Platycerium Featured By Owner Sep 5, 2018  Professional General Artist
Thanks for the faves and Watch, most appreciative! :)
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:iconbaronautumn:
BaronAutumn Featured By Owner Sep 3, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the fave :)
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:iconautumn-spirit:
autumn-spirit Featured By Owner Sep 4, 2018
no problem
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