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Literature
moon.tether
impetuous dreams of
seashores and your scarf
billowing in open breezes,
granulated images dusted
with salt and the rinds
of leftover tides,
your footprints stark
in miles of wet sand.
I have all these dreams
of running, to Paris or
Bali, never stopping until
we run out of air
to breathe or reach
the very edges
of the map.
I’m convinced the lines
on my palms are a mess
of co-ordinates,
the longitudes
and latitudes
of all the seashores
we should stand at,
our toes in the ocean
and our heels
on solid ground,
my hair
wild and buffeted,
your scarf
streaming,
as we take
one last
moonshine breath
and run our way
off the map
entirely.
coral fibres left imprinted
on our cheeks, we could
drown in the reefs beneath
the dinner-plates
of the earth, or perhaps
slip into another realm
of currents and moon-tether
and sea-storms,
where we start with
no air and no place
left to run,
but all this time
to hold,
all this time
to stay,
dancing to the tune
of whale-song
slowly receding,
as we sing back
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Literature
God(l)ess.
My gods have grown stale since you left. How can the saints compare to devas with a thousand arms, a thousand lives, and all this time to waste listening in return for a slice of chilled mango? My saints have always been nameless and unknown, a long line of white-faced men and white-robed women with stories I ought to have learned in school, but I always seemed to miss class for a moth or a bramble or a grazed knee.
Your gods have stories – you painted them across my bed-sheets in the mornings, clicking your bangles and talismans to the beat of beat poetry and monkey tails. Your temple was one piece of carved schist, your idols golden and flower-laced. I thought of my churches, the stiff air and creaking pews, bowing obeisance to a window, a candle, a distant angelic host. Your idols breathed and laughed in incense-filled rooms, mine watched the wisps of smoke trail up to their abode disinterested and unmoved.
But you left all the same, just as I learned all their names, you left
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Literature
bone and marrow and cartilage too.
It was a slow break.
The bone had grown brittle
from an injury when I was younger,
it only took the lightest stress to
fracture.
To anyone else it looked like an accident but to me
it was the first line of a poem about us.
In the plaster room, they set my leg into an exaggerated ‘L,’
a sharp right-angle of toes to heel to calf,
the bones held tightly between the railroad tracks of
plaster of paris and modern medicine not far removed from
Paris’ day in Troy but
everyone said the bed-rest was enviable,
the crutches would garner attention,
the injury affection.
To me, it was a quiet reminder of how I needed to soak
my thoughts in a similar mould, a caricature of
correct form to try and undo the damage of our
gradual splinter.
In Chinese, they have the same word for
heart and mind, it is the same for me with
hairline fractures and heartbreak.
When the plaster was cut, my leg
was a pale imitation of the other,
soft and cakey like unrisen dough,
as if reborn to step the fir
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Literature
botanical.heart
My mother gave me a flower, said
it would only bloom when my heart
was broken. I thought it was a curse.
I watched it grow, leaf after leaf
unfurling into pink-tinged skies
and lonely nights. My first love
turned me (upside) down.
He tumbled into another’s arms,
and the plant shivered an inch
upwards by morning.
I never watered it, hated it like an
unwelcome guest. I once poured
boiling tea into its roots but
the stem only sighed for a week
and recovered. I met a boy with
a talent for making things grow
and the flower halted its ascent.
We talked across continents and
seasons, telephone lines like
tightropes. I lost my balance.
A new leaf-bud began to swell.
She asked me about it, the plant
on my windowsill. It had grown
outwards and upwards, a shrub
of generic shape and temperament.
I told her about its trick, the secret
to it blooming. She laughed, said
“as long as you hold my hand,
there won’t be any flowers.”
It didn’t take long for the first
new buds
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Literature
river.flow
we talk in rivers. I have noticed
them flow in the midst of our
conversations – mine the thames,
serpentine slipping as a whisper
through the low meadows, quiet
and hissing. yours the five rivers
of the punjab, vying like brothers
in a tumult of froth and noise,
wrestling their way through
mangrove roots and mazes.
the rivers raised us, taught us their ways.
somewhere two oceans meet in a
place where there is no wind,
the doldrums silent and still
as two currents cancel out in
a moment of collision. as the
thames flows into the punjab
and halts, so too do we stand
together, silent, over-brimming
with restrained tidal waves,
our currents ceased and bridled
each time we kiss in a place
where even time stills its flow.
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Literature
blackbird refrain.
Mine is a nation of songbirds.
Even now amongst the cliffs of
noise, the walls of peeling engines
and a thousand tongues speaking
in tandem in an edifice of sound,
I hear them still. Blackbirds
dotting the stripped branches of
warped beeches, the flitting of thrushes
amongst the shrubbery of landscaped
office spaces, I hear them trill.
A constant lyric of avian emotion,
their sentiments mixing with mine as
dusk nestles itself in the unlit
corners of London’s neon streets.
I hear them still, as I wander
quiet backstreets in the footsteps of my
Victorian ancestors, wondering if they
heard the same lineage of musicians
weaving lullabies from the barren
branches of the very same oak. I hear
them trill, and my ancestors heard them
too, perhaps as buoyed by love as I am,
echoing those love-worn serenades in
the nest of their hearts just as I do now,
or perhaps instead so singed by betrayal
that instead irony took up the cuckoo
mantle in their thrumming chorus-line.
Mine is a nation of
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Literature
paramour.
You came the same summer a flock of parakeets arrived in the park outside my windows. I remember it still, you sat on the windowsill as they flashed amongst the branches, paint-strokes of emerald dashed against a backdrop of greenery, the vapours from your tea curling like incense around you, a devotional image in repose. They mirrored you somehow. When you laughed, their songs would whistle underneath the breeze, slipping through the open windows with a trill. When you slept, they would nest in the boughs of century-old oaks, wings tucked into their sides as closely as your arms to yours.
They were yours, the parakeets and their songs, their feathers, their beaks too. But when you left, they stayed, flitting amongst the trees outside my window, the branches bare but for their greenery. I watched them, nesting in pairs as the frost laced the panes of glass, as the ring box gathered dust under the chest of drawers. I tried to call you, tell you that you left them behind when you moved o
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Literature
hair.line
My mother taught me how to
fall in love with strangers
so before I met you we were
already halfway to the stars,
but as soon as you spoke
I was lost. Loving strangers
is easy, there are no secrets
and no hard conversations,
there are no wounds to salve,
no scars to explain. The oddities,
they rest as quirks on the skin
of casual observation: a light
flip of the hair, a habit of
counting exits, the planning of
escape routes masked as
musical fingers playing sonatas
in empty air, a symphony
of fears tucked under quiet smiles
at gurgling infants. Falling
in love with an acquaintance,
a friend, a man like you, is
new to me. And when it happens,
I will have no map and no
compass, no way of hiding all
the pieces of me that I have
spent a lifetime slipping
under a thousand eccentricities
and the muses I have made from
passersby so easy to love
without risk of breaking.
You trace
your fingers
down my hair-
line fractures
with all the
softest edges
of curiosity,
whispering to
me of tragedy
and
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Literature
love notes from an ivory tower.
i give you my midnights, my eleventh hours;
i give you the first taste of caffeine in the
morning, the opening of curtains, and their
closing too. i give you the moments spent
staring in open jewellery boxes and thinking
of your rhinestone teeth glistening in dark
rooms; i give you the silence of closed doors
and closed eyes, every fragment of reflection
at three am. i give it all to you, the hours,
and the quiet, the pieces of myself that only my
walls have seen. i know you will give me yours
in return, the sweep of your palms on cold sheets,
the beat of your feet on bicycle pedals -
that first suck of air on a Sunday afternoon.
you will give me crossed shoulder-blades,
the aches of late nights lost in libraries that
whisper my name from a thousand worn spines;
i give you it all, and gladly, knowing that my
midnights, my doorway pausing and thoughts of you
slipped between the headlights of passing cars,
the thrum of your heartbeat echoing still
in the hum of all these people rushing p
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Literature
garland.bearer
Has Cupid ever fallen in love?
Saw you from across the sky and
dived, impaled himself on his own
arrow at your feet and prayed
for the libation of your kiss?
Did he give you his wings, tied them
to the faintest of hellos and wished
for flight; did he cuff the moon to
your wrists and spill the stars over
your lips in that first confession
of something close to love?
Because Cupid could give you everything
soaked in sentiment: clouds of swan
down, an ocean of white silk, he could
have plucked the rings from Saturn’s
axis and slipped them on your fingers
if he ever fell in love with you.
It isn’t difficult to fall in love with
someone like you, but I can’t rearrange
the heavens or call upon a chorus of
erotes, all I can do is write you verses
with mortal hands and mortal sentiment –
Love is something for myths and legends
and Venus’ bedtime stories. I can only
give you words, and whisper them in the
language of the gods low enough for them
to mishear, misread
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Literature
Ganges.
i have been dreaming in rivers.
it started when those palms of
yours skated into the corners of
my imagination, soaked in thick
 incense smoke and wreathed with
    the scars of a thousand births and
         rebirths, a thousand more deaths
                and re-deaths. it started when
                   those palms pressed up against
                    the palisades, slipping quiet prayers
            in sanskrit between the roman numerals
          and grecian arches of a life spent spinning
    like foucault's pendulum below the domes
  built by my ancestors' hands - their palms
plastered and rock-worn, calloused
and beaten. but yours are soft, they
whisper in a language i have never
heard, a hush below the angels' choir
  and sh
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Literature
vanitas.
how arrogant it is
to fall in love with
a mirror image of
imperfection. see
your wide hands
and splayed grin
reflected in the
arches of my eye-
brows, see your
velvet laugh caught
in mine, we make a
martyr of our vanity
only for it to linger
in every kiss. i have
lived fewer lives than
you, have cycled through
the centuries with a little
less conviction and such
dispassion for love. you
come with the wisdom of
every incarnation, of
charity and soft palms,
of will and want and
worship; i watch and
try to imitate your
silence in a hundred
words and always come
up short. a thousand
lifetimes of carbon
can still be compressed
into a pearl, it sits
in my mouth as we kiss,
that this is nothing
that hasn’t happened
before. mirrors always
show two realities, see
my worry and see my doubt,
how it translates to
certainty in the reversed
curve of your jaw, see
your modesty, how it
rests proud on the
ridges of my shoulders.
in the nights of firework
skies i cannot tell whose
hands hold whose
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Literature
fever.break
The heart of an hour veined
with thoughts of you, and you
alone. Lying in great seas to
wash all these sins away has
done nothing but prune my
skin and my faults are studded
into the marrow of every
decision I fail to make anyway so -
I have time. I have all this time to
waste on a set of straight teeth
and a pretty face, a boy with venus
dimples and sharp hips and wide
hands, a boy who laughs in tune
and sings without. Adrift in Atlantic
waters, these oceans are too cold
for your Indian summers but here
you are scrubbing at red raw sins
so scarlet they blend into one great
mess of indiscernible mass. Ask my
past lovers and they will tell you I
am a thief, and proud, and arrogant,
you will say as much one day. Ask them
how I kiss and they will say dispassionately
but with all the fervour of a fever breaking,
you will say as much one day. But here,
we catch eyes as we soak our sins and
stop. Yours are beautiful, I say, as are
yours, you laugh. Caught in the pull
of shifting tides, we dr
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Literature
cyber.space
and she exists still, in cyber
space, the paris of happier
times, in a thousand snap
shots of nothing important.
there, her glasses two discs
of light under a honey moon,
with a laugh captured in an
eclipse of silence, she stays.
there is no parting, no planes,
no plans, there is only paris
and there is only her. and she
exists still, a series of faces
in a series of places, none i
can recognise, and to her i
am nothing more than a
crossroads while she lingers
still, whenever i think of
the rinds of laughter she
left peeled in my bedroom
musings. how good it would
have been, to stay there.
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Literature
time.wide
We first met in the slums of Paris,
I knew you by your hands, and we
caught eyes between the passing
carriages, their wheels slick with
waste as the plague settled its
cloak over Europe’s shoulders.
The back-alleys of Karakorum, and
you rode into town with a dagger
as short as your temper. I watched
your hands flash, thin and white,
in the face of the barmaid, saw
them swing with hard knuckles,
and said nothing at all as you left.
We met in the pits of Rome, the
Colosseum, stood opposite the other
in our rusting armour. I watched
your gilded teeth graze a smile as
the crowds called for blood; well,
you said, it won’t be me, and I saw
your hands were bloody on the
hilt of my dagger –
London, the blitz, I knew you by
your hands, a red birthmark from
our last encounter, and the sirens
wailed out into the night as we
waited it out on the street, nothing
but black skies and cracked paving
and those hands glowing like wax as
you chain-smoked stunted cigarettes.
I watched yo
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Literature
heart.sick
now that my heart has been taken by another
i see the beauty in the giving
i would have given you it gladly, would have
wrapped it up in autumn skies,
a parcel of sycamore leaves and poetry and
it would have been all yours.
it is not, though, and yours is no more mine
than this soil, or this air, or this
frail piece of love i cling to in your absence.
throwing verses at your back,
silence my tongue and hear it work still to
explain, confess, concede
cage my hands and watch them burn with
loneliness, yours is the love i
cannot purge. heartsick as i am and empty
-chested too, my love is all
else, my love is gastric, flesh and lungs,
my love is marrow and nerves
and eyelashes too. it is the respiration of
a hive of dazed wasps, caught
in the honey and seeking a sweeter surrender
still, it is the bewitching hour
when love rises phantasmic from dead dreams
and dances over ceilings in a
wedding gown, it is the sun letting itself be
outshone by the shadow of
the moon, it is its own pulse and
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deviantID

comatose-comet's Profile Picture
comatose-comet
xXI-Feel-InfiniteXx
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United Kingdom
Hi, I'm Kelsey :love:

Even though I'm supposed to be doing things with my life I keep ending up procrastinating here and pretending to be able to write.

Lived for a year in China, the time difference was mental and even though I'm back in the UK I swear pieces of me are living seven hours in the future, dancing on the other side of the world. Also lived in Paris for four months and I miss the eclairs immensely.

Currently reading: Eat Pray Love Elizabeth Gilbert
Just Finished: If Cats Disappeared from the World Genki Kawamura, Memento Mori Muriel Spark, A Passage to India E. M. Forster, India: A Short History Andrew Robinson

25 | F | Sagittarius | Hopeless skeptic | Sold my soul to Hussie | Johzenji | 浪迹天涯 |
Interests
Quote:
"'Maria,' he said, 'I am dying in Paradise.'"
Charlotte Bronte, Villette

Personal:

Uni has started up again, and the new year has found me much changed. I'm still no longer with that someone who once took up my writing time, and in many ways still unsure how I feel about it. My mind keeps picking at the stitches of what love is, who I am, and what I want and it's more than a little distracting.

Anyone got any fun resolutions this year?

In other news, I was part of the Tennenbaum Trebuchets for Critmas 2018; the pieces I critiqued are featured below (they are all amazing pieces of literature so please check them out!) We may not have won, but we gave those Poinsetta Pikes something to contend with that's for sure! Roman :la: 

Bookdiva  Currently Reading: A Passage to India, E. M. Forster
Bookdiva  Just Finished: If Cats Disappeared from the World, Genki Kawamura; Memento Mori, Muriel Spark

Critmas Feature:
Always Mondaya subtle rain
papers the backyard
garden-party snails
scare away the afternoon
I'll pay three syllables
for a neighborly nuisance
but it's always Monday
silk thread mews
and a gossamer pin
none too concerned
she's half-a-week behind
I'll pay for each bruise
I was born in purple
because it's always Monday
CreosoteI can taste the storms on the horizon.
The weather rolls in, quietly carrying the clouds
across desert plains. Life begins
even before the monsoons come.
Somewhere, far beyond the mountains,
there's a forest that speaks to me
in a language of leaves-
the landscape is suddenly silenced by a veil
of falling rain, tap-tapping
every surface on it's way down
as the vulture spread their wings-
collecting wind on their way out to sea.
great white shark.i.
you dream of another springtime
at the bottom of a swimming pool,
watching the sun-ripples dazzle
across your skin. they cast rose
petals into your fishpond, crimson
and sweet. it is not enough. you
thirst for the world, for salt and
deep water off the African cape
and this aquarium cage they've
made for you is far too bright,
too shallow. you suffocate in
slow motion, day by day, and
your heart grows quiet and still.
ii.
find the words, say them aloud. 
i am the ocean and i cannot be kept.
iii.
tomorrow you will drown. tomorrow
your starved carcass will stink of
chlorine when at last they pull you
from the depths - but don't think of
that now. today, think of the wild
home they stole from you. think of
the stormwinds, the delirious taste
of seal blood, the full moon tide on
the lonely Pacific coast. remember
that once, you were beautiful and
whole and free. remember that you
would rather die than be broken.
say it again,
again, 
again -
iv.
today the po
borderlinelove, 
you need to understand:
i have an addict's empty heart
i am porus, 
poured over
a glass of wine
spilt across the tabletop
and dried to a stain
i am chronically empty
with a sieve of a soul
love passes through me
but never sticks
so many nights ago,
i begged you:
mediate my moderation
because i have none
my glass is empty or full
i haven't seen a single shade of grey 
since the moment i opened my eyes
my world is either
a blinding aura
or a moonless night

my vision 
is chronically skewed, tilted
the scales
never balance
quite right
the waters never settle
my body knows no homeostasis:
it is in constant battle,
unrest
my mind
is in a incessant state
of disquiet: 
cacophony, clamor
there is a bar fight 
between my head and heart
—my body is caught between
Funnyhow the veterinarian still has my name
and number on file. Funny that I should decide
to check my stacked-up voicemails today,
a task to feel productive, a brief
reprieve from the low-hanging threat
of my mother’s suicide. Funny how
the office assistant on the other end
had no way of knowing she’d tacked on
one more blow to my coattails. Funny
that one of our cats that we loved since
we first saw their wiry, unsure bodies when
they were eight-weeks old should be
ill in some way, some way I don’t and won’t
know about because you’ve cleared me out
of your little life in Dallas entirely.  
Funny how everyone knows this
except the nice people at the vet’s office.
Funny how I call you to hear a sound
my head and heart can agree on—
your voice—but you don’t answer.
Funny how safe the bet is
that you won’t call me back. Funny
how some other woman has learned
to love those half-Siamese bastards,
their claw marks still fresh and s
Often Savage Spacethe dead live beneath our skin
not underfoot, nor overhead
outlines of their lips
press against ours
from a forgotten blood
inside
theirs are the many mouths
that speak our systems
into unsettled
and often savage
space
time loses its mastery here
loses,
when they forget to die
when our words forget how time works
and take their cadence
from the waves
of conquered horde inside us
the dead i am
never really know
what dead they were
before these layers of portal, of memory,
fused our amalgamation
into the future dead
and fused us to the dead
wandering memory's mouth,
knitting their dreams
back into us
we have never just been
never just lived
we've never broken open
what little of us
rattles in the shallow
we'll never be more
than what we've mourned
and never bothered to bury
To Catch a Star    There were only three mice left in all of Ashcroft farm, and the cat had them cornered. Back and forth he stalked beneath them, tail held high as a battle standard.
    “It’s only a matter of time,” Grey, the oldest mouse, said with a sigh. “There’s no food up here, no water; he knows it.” He turned away and combed his whiskers, already resigned to the inevitable.
    On the other side, Pip, the smallest of the trio, shivered and drew back further, but there was nowhere left to go. They’d found a final refuge on a narrow beam, high in barn’s roof, but from there, the only way was down.
    Bramble leaned forward to peer over the edge. Two luminous eyes stared up at him.
    “Well, my little mice: what will it be?” The cat’s voice was a velvet purr. “Climb down, and you can end this with dignity.”
    “Then what, O cat?” Bramble asked.
art classi draw stars
that dance with
the freckles
on your arms 
while you plant
flowers in my stomach
and let the vines
squeeze me
in two
    but this kudzu
    seeded within
    aligning my spine
    with yours 
    lacks a distinct
    sense of
    suffocation
our songbird
dispositions 
hum in harmony
    the beating wings of
    our hearts
    melodizing with
    the stuttering
    singing from our
    throats
i stare at the 
popcorn ceiling
and listen to your
gentle breathing as
you fall asleep
other the phone
    angrily asking
    myself why i am
    letting myself
    fall for you
    so easily
but when the sun
peeks through
the cotton layered
sheets of the sky
all i can see is your
honey-dipped smile
and feel your
feather fingertips
brush against mine
    so despite this ache
lunai. nunitus
he told the secrets of the moon
like no one ever had before
fascinating her
with mercury and clockwork
so like herself
she whispered
ii. amavi
she called him strong
i think
childlike
he slept on the curve of her hips
too light
too restless
iii. barbara
waking in solitude
he found the moon's chalk gift
crushed
in his left pocket
vanishing actWhen I was fourteen, I fell in love with the shape of poetry; the way words looked as they sat spread across the page. I loved the line-breaks, the dashes, the parentheses. I loved the longer-than-average words, the special words (iridescent, elude, exhilaration, illuminate). I loved the way they rang in my brain, the way they appeared from air as I wrote them myself on blank paper.
When I was fifteen, I fell in love with the sound of poetry. The ups and downs of human speech as vocal folds grappled with the mess of phonemes, inflection, and emotion. The calm raspiness before the onset of tears, the subtle change in pitch that occurred before one began to yell -as art collided with truth and inner turmoil. I loved how I could press play, hear the same words resound in my brain, yet find a completely different meaning. Words mean something different when spoken; it’s like they come alive, become their own person, tell their own stories. And you can almost see it in front of
A cane questions on unknownsFellow limpers, me and my third leg.
The pavement is wide
gray is the afternoon
the skin forests are flowing
and dancing is the sprained umbrella.
Every building is an island
to its neighbours: we have stopped
counting the limps it takes
to chart every new meander of the city.
Every lighthouse was once a person
but our engines are too unshone
to harbor a description.
Still, our footsoles
have become footwear thanks to the pain
and our trail
is tipsy, like a limp gone
on too many weekends,
but we yet stumble the city around us
my umbrella and my grip
on my pained leg,
wanting to outrace the sunshine
as the clouds steadily gain
on the afternoon finish race.
Hold Your TongueI don't think that I could taste another's lips
without comparing them to yours
Inhale their breath into my lungs
Breathe their scent in through my pores
I don't think that I could touch their skin
Or run my fingers through their hair
Can't get lost within their gaze
With your presence always there
And I can still hear your voice
Fingers still feel your skin within their tips
You dared say you loved me
with his spit smeared on your lips
How could you say I was the only one
After everything you've done
I'm surprised the words rolled out
while his taste held down your tongue
amused should mean without inspirationdear sensuality:
i miss you--
especially the way you'd step behind me,
slide your arms beneath mine
and push them down onto the desk beneath your fingers
turn the vulnerable forearms inward
and with your nails scrape shivering lines
so lightly up the golden skin,
make my stomach strive to outdo ropes
in its rigging skill (knotty, knotty boy me);
the way the white half-moons skated
back, forth,
back
forth
across the expanses where my skin is palest
(and most defenseless)
til i shuddered, before finally
tapping your way up into my palms,
turning them over,
blanketing my hands with yours and
firmly, lovingly
(so lovingly)
curl my fingers around a pen
("write", you'd whisper.
"you have to.")
PhaseThe curl of your hair
Looks like ink
On your breast
My mother tells me
Our love
Is a phase
You told me
That the ocean is nothing
Compared to my eyes
You sleep like death
Next to me
In the candlelight
And I want to die
Next to you
When I am old
The night sky
Is nothing when compared
To your hair
And the birdsong
Hurts my ears
When I think of your voice
Our love is not like
A phase of the moon -
It is the moon
Daughter of CalypsoDraft 2
She said, I miss the sea.
I said, I will write you songs about the ocean.
Still, I only saw waves in her eyes
while mine housed stars.
I said, I love you,
and she held shells to her ears.
I watched her face, but
she watched the water -
there was more joy there
than I had ever seen
when she had met my gaze.
The water making love to the sand -
that was the lovemaking she cared about.
She didn’t want to touch unless
it wrinkled her fingers.
I’m sorry if I tasted worse than brine.
Draft 1
She said, I miss the sea.
I said, I will write you songs about the ocean.
Still, I only saw waves in her eyes
while mine housed stars.
I said, I love you,
and she held shells to her ears.
I watched her face while
she watched the water -
there was more joy there
than I had ever seen
when our eyes had met.
The water making love to the sand -
that was all the lovemaking she cared about.
She didn’t want to to

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:iconungraciouspastor:
ungraciouspastor Featured By Owner Feb 6, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for reading my words.
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:icon007-seriously-serial:
I appreciate the +fav on found wildcat!
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:iconcomatose-comet:
comatose-comet Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
No worries, I loved it.
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:icondefajoey:
defajoey Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2019  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks so much for the llama!! :)
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:iconcomatose-comet:
comatose-comet Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
No worries!
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:iconzoriaisis:
ZoriaIsis Featured By Owner Dec 20, 2018  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
Thanks for the llama! Llamabackatchu
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:iconcomatose-comet:
comatose-comet Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
heehee thank you :llama:
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:iconzoriaisis:
ZoriaIsis Featured By Owner Jan 22, 2019  Hobbyist Artisan Crafter
You got it :iconllamalaplz:
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:iconbattlefairies:
BATTLEFAIRIES Featured By Owner Dec 9, 2018
Mi llama es su llama :D (Big Grin) 
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:iconcomatose-comet:
comatose-comet Featured By Owner Dec 10, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
everyone else go home, you all just got out-punned
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