Tag: loveletters

this is your fault

Gravity plucks
the apple from the tree
easier than any hand
from flesh to divine
it’s all memory
the contest
the days next to water

She spoke quietly, looking out a window that was really a sheet of rain, her eyes painted electric green. “We didn’t have to talk at all. This town, the lights go dim when I press the power button. There’s a gasp, a sigh, and the energy inside collapses. You into me, relationships wearing coats of particles over wire. Tonight I miss you. I remember my name from your voice, how the inflection was different.”

The phone is a bare sliver of plastic, silver and blue-lit from within. “No, I can survive like this. Bare walls aren’t as taboo as an affection lapse. I felt like that bed was a refugee camp, finally I could stop running.” There’s a cup in front of her, slowly being stirred. The spoon is tarnished, antique and ornate with a dipped rose on the handle.

“I don’t know what makes you beautiful. When you reflect off my eyes, my heart eats you as shadow, intrinsic but ethereal, to live off later. Every moment with you feeds me, satisfies hollows inside me which say, ‘we have gone hungry long enough, there is no turning back’. I can’t help myself. Your eyes shone with a light that was devastating. It was converting, a religion of only you and I together in a little nameless room.”

She smiles, a new expression. She looks cut out of time. A glossy magazine spread featuring smooth lines and gray.

“I don’t know if I can explain. I knew I was flaunting something when I came in, that I was changing rules with my behaviour, but I continued onward. Before there was you and I feeling awkward, admit it. I was pushing past and forward. I was right on track until I was derailed by your eyes. Crash and burn and this is love in a manner I’d never encountered. Suddenly I was your salvation. I was every epiphany in the middle of the night over your entire life. You were the metatron and I the heaviest mote of light to have ever been dropped spoken from your lips. You made me think of fire, of flying.” Her long hair has fallen into her face and she pushes it back with one hand as she leans back in her chair, adjusting her skirt and crossing her legs at the thigh. Her stockings are black.

“There’s many nameless rooms, I know, I’ve lived in them, but they were not that one, they were not right there. That was a flowered wallpaper sheath for power in the middle of the night, that was a terrible fire that blazed in the softest little colours. You want to know what I thought? ‘This is permission,’ I thought, ‘for anything I want to do with you. This is something I have never seen before. If I am lucky, I will see it again. There will be no furnace falling from the sky to consume you, there will be no front page accident hurling metal like rain to dash brains into the pavement.'”

ever want something to be fiction?

I went looking for you. People get lost in the darkness of a nightclub easier than they get lost on the street. Everything is badly lit to make the patrons look better, it’s just the way it is. I found you at one end, on the platform above the dancefloor, up four steps. Your back was turned from me, as usual, and I planned on sliding behind you and holding you to me in the darkness. Your face was lit by a cell phone screen, the most charming thing I’d seen all day. I was behind the row of you, walking up barefoot, feeling the scuffs in the floor made by a thousand slutty high-heels. Next to you was a friend of ours, he was laughing with a woman I wasn’t sure I knew. My form became a denial, an uncertainty. Our friend, he saw me and laughed, pulling me to his side. Who is that? I should not have asked. Everything was confirmed. I shrugged off his arm as politely as I knew and walked fast away. I just barely made it to the ladies room. I slammed open a stall door and collapsed to the floor unable to breathe, choking on illness. Somebody knocked on the wood panel behind me, asked if I was alright. I said I had too much drink. I lost everything down to dry heaves. My throat burned.

Outside I sat alone in the hallway. I was missing for over an hour. You never came to find me. You were content to say hello when I arrived then ignore me until it was time for you to leave. This is normal, however, in spite of everything I want to scream for. I couldn’t make the nausea go away. I can’t make you not neglect me. I needed to leave but it would have been rude. So many friends were there, dancing together, making a nice evening. When you came to leave me, the same as every other time I’ve ever seen you, I couldn’t look at you. I should have moved when you spotted me. Slipped away while you got caught in the fishnet crowd. I wanted to hit you. Instead I bowed my head and waited for you to come. I wanted a reason to forgive you, to forgive myself for loving you. I almost slapped you, when you tried to touch me as if I meant something, as if you weren’t lying through your teeth again. You lied to me, you lied to her. You’re happy making whores out of all of us. I almost slapped you, I almost smashed my glass into your beautiful face.

Meet me by the water.

I’m thinking of opening my skin for you. Starting at the back of my neck, under my hair, taking my fingers to the one hundred little buttons that run down my spine. Held together by childhood fears, they only look like shadow. This is my body, it’s made of memory. I will stand with you and we will be alone, static crackling like a television screen across the street of the space between us. The girl thinks this and asks him a riddle of no consequence, conscience laughing in innocence. She says, I won’t tell them you’re here, instead my eyes will carefully close like trapdoors, invisible to the audience with prying ideas.

Now morning will die, taking with it the day, and my thoughts will turn to touch. It’s slightly inescapable. It’s asking, but memory smiles like it means it. My glance is softest gray iron, it only bends under the tips of your fingers.

I’m thinking of opening my skin for you. Starting at the back of my neck, under my hair, taking my fingers to the one hundred little buttons that run down my spine. Held together by childhood fears, they only look like shadow. This is my body, it’s made of memory. Inside I am warm, sticky with candied intimacy like a candy apple with the most inviting red. My hands will lift my hair away. My elbows will raise to my sides and I will try to be deft and fail. You will have to help me when I reach the middle of my back. I wonder if you’re willing, if you dream of cinnamon dry lips as well.

~

Does anyone in town have a tri-pod? I woke with a worm today nibbling in my mind, spelling out an Indonesian posture self-portrait set.

Also, don’t type “lemonparty” into google and hit “I’m feeling lucky.”

Claw me to you, keep me dry in this little piece of solid rain.

There’s something in me which still needs figuring out, the sums don’t add up completely. I know too many things without reason why. I know that I like the fierceness of belief, that I want to burn with something hotter than the space between stars. The rotation of the earth is secondary. Tell me stories, my loves, my lovers, my people who hold me and fall into step when I dream. Breath out of your hearts a song for me, something to remember you by when I’m leaving. I don’t need to think in braille to see you in spite of my eyes, because I can see you. Your eyes are lined in silver and your hands dipped in gold.

The time of year is marked down again, the sky blue and heat rolling off the street in ocean waves. My birthday’s coming up, my personal time of reckoning. This will be interesting as it never meant anything before. Grace is ending, grace and one more shot to find in myself the patience to come second. Right this minute, I’m in the middle of a petal burst like a storm of pink broke right where I’m sitting. They flooded down from his fingers to bury my eyes in wonder. I expect this, I expect this for always like old easy listening rock on scratchy old radios on every single stretch of highway in middle american movies late at night, flat tones and single star rising, early career and never gave a thought to past history. You always wanted to be James Dean moments aren’t the ones that I know how to connect with. These are, these disappearing I can close my eyes and taste you on my tongue without thinking. I know what you look like on the inside of my soul’s skin. You feel integral. You talk to me in poetry, with meaning. You hold me to you as if I am air and you are drowning. I feel calm in the face of the fear, in the face of you and your needs and this moment, this makes it right. Metaphor as teeth, metaphor as chromed pieces of bone from your fingertips to make myself a necklace. There is no way to repay this debt.

Once upon a time, there
were fairytales
princes and
strange iron shoes
what meant honour
Once upon a time, there
were childhoods
we believed
in gold and
thought being good
was winning

Tell me a story, they said
explain to us why we crave
towers
why we crave pastel dresses and
happy endings

Tell me what matters
when everything is beautiful

before I go out to get your present.

Standing with you can feel like movement, like we’re rushing at a thousand running paces with our feet still. It’s distracting, who is the innocent when we’re both lions tearing the throats of our laughter out with sharp teeth? Kissed and tell me, kissed and snakes writhing, desert storm moments of key note ivory playing our song with long nailed fingers. Stone was never so soft before. In the dark we have light because every star wants to sing for us, every shining globe of fire wants to say our names. Casually we accept this, nodding our heads and taking hands before running. This is like sins don’t count, this is like guilt is something to eat off silver plates and discard like missing you. who said I need you first? This is one more year now I’m here to see it, half a year is coming up. Peaks, valleys, a scrape the sky conquering of bedpost notch proportions but better, but lucent. I’d like to think this is special. I’d like to think this is it. Speculation is this is more than I expected, this is stretching hands toward the moon in ways I never have before.

Thank you for letting imagination thrive. You caught me hook in heart. Thank you for allowing me the silk of your hair. You took me for a spirit guide. Thank you for allowing the burn of your eyes. You hypnotize genes into being. Thank you for allowing you to see me right.

I crucify my love in supermarkets

Breathe into me, keep me near like a chalice you lift my hips to drink from. Touch your lips to every secret I never told that belongs to me. Tear with your teeth the wrapping. It’s a gift for you to hold me. It’s a blessing that you know my name and grace itself that you speak it with that tongue. That voice of rain and late night serenade. To meet burning coal and devour their exquisite sight is more than I could ask for. Look at me, you say, as if there were choices.

My eyes, if they were cameras, would want to track your every movement for positive amendment. I want to show the world what it is I see, how beautiful you can be to me. You have me holding the train of that long long dress, and it’s too heavy. The laces are caught in my fingers and bringing me down like the lyrics to some pop song. The newsreel doesn’t show this part, I’m walking cliche today and yesterday and yesterday. I’m eating the taste of mead. Since people started pairing off, this has been the meeting place. Crossroads, cross roads, twisting fury hanged-man seeds. Drink it and dream, hot salty drops searing tongue and desire. Throw the peel over your shoulder and avoid the mirror. It’s time to light the night on fire with your eyes closed.

Told to find an outlet, I tried and I think I failed. One day I should read a romance novel.

She holds her tongue between her teeth. Her fingers will speak for her. Keys depressed to send sooty desire in his general direction. It’s been a hard and dangerous hiatus of communication. He gets lost easily, it’s only a tenuous thread what binds him, what reels him in. An invisible hair that must be wound and wound again, tightly, lest he escape and see what’s been done to him. Enough of this and he will crave her like the sting of the needle he never knew, he’ll shake for his hit. The wound will bleed nuances and he’ll lick it up.

With a little click, she signs in.

He’s there, in front of her. Witty t-shirt and long close jeans. His voice is distorted a little through memory, his face caught clear like a photograph. Anything for her, he claims. She’ll hold him and keep him. This one is special, this one is dear. She reaches out to slip off his shirt, he’s motionless, body bending little in the process. It falls to the floor to his bare feet, ignored from then on.
It’s smut – just smut. Go away – it’s embarrassing.

love like that



Destroying her thoughts, he’s a virus ravaging her mind. Across her brain the chemicals shift, wanting turns to desire to need to pour from her lips in a long drawn out sigh. Her hands reach for him to pull him in, meeting nothing but her own flesh. He’s telling her he’s lifting her, a chalice for his lips to drink from.

A vision of sweetest grace, she arches.

He’s telling her everything she never thought to think of, never thought to want. Her nails biting into her shoulder, she can hear him breathing to match the bee-sting flicker of his tongue. It’s surrender, it’s naked, it’s every secret spilling from the most tender of lips.

“Tell me now what you sound like”
“My voice is soft like my skin”
“Tell me now what you crave”
“You, here, with me.”

He takes her hair and threads it through his fingers, it’s silk, it’s sweet. If he closes his eyes, he’ll not see her words, but he can taste them now. Roll them on his tongue, she takes everything made of voice. She’s so beautiful, her fingers at her mouth make him quiver like a slick poison is taking over. It’s like his palace coming down. It’s like she lives beneath his skin.

“Kiss me”

And their fingers touch the glass.

I’ve never done this before : don’t read this

It’s looking like a long and complicated winter. What weeks change time, what days are these that drag in sunshine dust, swirling up colour to taint our leaves and kill them so they fall, spiralling to the ground. Touch typing, touch again. Put this in a box and bury it, hope the sweet toxins inside don’t seep out to kill the wildlife. Flora and fauna poisoned from painful misapplication of affection. There was a dream of hands last night, pale floating things that tucked my blanket in. Sensation so real I opened my eyes to fine darkness. I thought you found me sleeping.

Your picture etched inside the skull. Blue lined plans, an architect dreamt this and woke up sweating. I’m not so skilled at wielding terrible smiles and fiery words. I can only listen to what flows from these fingers in front of me. There’s a chemical disaster down by the waterfront. Tomorrows front page news. I can taste the flat death in the smoke drifting in the open livingroom door. It closes my lungs, as if it weren’t hard enough to breathe tonight. I’m afraid I’m going to be a girl and dissolve. Let my eyes plead to a non-existent heaven and once again be unable to find sleep until dawn closes my eyes. It’s easier that I never knew you.

There’s something inside of me. Under my ribs, pressing.

foot in mouth disease

I don’t know who reads this, but I would like to pretend to myself, just for now, that you are one of them.

I can barely write prose, but I seem to try. I can’t write fiction, but I can write hypotheticals. Might happens are different. There’s places in between places. I can see you on this screen, I touch it and my fingers leave marks on the glass. It’s a poor mans sunshine, but it’s what I have. My life is beginning, my options open in a way I won’t have later. I’m an arrogant bitch just for putting this here.

This is a dare.

It makes me always happy to be reminded that everyone is human. Our heroes are fools, our scientists go grocery shopping like everyone else. Motivations are complex or simple but always personal. Shiny metal buildings organically curving above me and I thought of you. Again, at two degrees away from the exhibits. Stopped suddenly, I didn’t laugh when I realized what I was doing. Instead I held it. Looked at the shape of my thoughts. Small and round but heavy in my mind. A lump of etched silver, showing parts of the my motivation I rarely think of and never visit. Something has shifted.

Stupid and brave may be synonymous.

The world is dark. Shadows lengthened to eat my room, to leave me lit only by my computer. Interestingly, I am left knowing that danger is also a personal thing. Webs woven of the strangest politics are the ones we encounter when desire is involved. Desire of any sort. Want versus need versus what we think. We think too much and that’s what makes us human. Pieces here and there of animalism break through and we get murders and violent crimes. Thinking too much I agree with. I’m very, very good at saying No. My eyes may close, but I can still see the upcoming drop. Somehow, I have taken control but am still moving, one careful step in front of the other, closer to the cliffside. I can’t see the ground, but past this, the undiscovered country is waiting. I don’t know if this is a push, a leap or an accidental fall.

There is wind.