There are some things that
are set in stone
Like mothers loving all their children equally
And brothers protecting their sisters
Till the end of the world
And sisters being there to make
Every black a little grey
But people collect colourful stones
And carve these things on them
Only to get so disillusioned about life
That they leave them on a bench,
Somewhere in the middle of the city,
And never look back.
“vi. I want to know everything about you. I want to study your freckles and name them like constellations. I want to learn about your cousins and about what makes you afraid to fall asleep at night. I want you to tell me about the first time you ever cried over someone and if you think I’ll ever be the reason you feel too much. I want you to tell me how you like your pancakes and if you’d rather go out for coffee or stay in. I want to explore your mind, give me a train ticket to the way you’ve been thinking, I’ll collect each stub, tape them to the walls so I’ll remember that you are an adventure. I want to map out the path of your spine and the gentle slope of your hips beneath my fingertips. I want to steal your breath and find what brings it back. I want you, entire.”—shehasneverhadawaywithwords
Wash away the weariness,
The dreariness, the teariness
And bleariness from your eyes;
Splash, and soak, the sunken sockets
Scrub and scour the
Soap-sudded, stubbled troubles;
Shave the sleep from your soul.
Stroke silk-smooth skin;
Fingertip-feel for flaws in the flesh
And trim any trace of tire-taxed transgressors.
Dry depression’s dampened dermal domicile
Cool off, calm down, and
Contemplate your conquered consciousness
again and again and again
push me up
against the wall;
turn your ear
to meet these lips
and dark secrets.
wisps of smoke
that bite and lick,
that kiss your skin.
fill me with
hugging the curves of your
lips, wet with desire,
runs slick between us.
your words feel
when they hit
collaboration with raisethecurve
I knew I would let you fuck me when I came into your room and there was a lava lamp on the desk and lime green sheets curled around the bed. You scrunched your eyes and smiled, explaining that it smelled like oak trees because you haven’t closed your windows since January. I thought it smelled like summer. I loved you for sitting cross legged on the ground and never once reaching to turn the lamp on. Hell, you had already turned me on. And at the time, that was enough. Your curtains inhaled and exhaled with the wind and I pressed my cheek to your chest and sighed. You smelled like summer.