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Coastlines are where you write love stories that don’t belong to you. On wet sand under dappled moonlight. 

Then oceans will collect them in the depth of their swirling dark secrets.

And trade you with seashells so you can hear them.

—  A scribbler // Coastlines

Perching on the warm rocks in the sunshine, surrounded by many fascinating rock pools and the beautiful turquoise and deep blue sea, it seemed to Algy that the life of a fluffy bird was sometimes a very pleasant one, even if the barnacles did prickle his tail feathers…

[Algy apologises if you have already seen this. He had to delete the original post as a Russian spam bot chain got hold of it.]

Visit Algy’s own web site

there will always be
a space for you here.

you have carved out a place
in my home
that even my fires
will not wipe away.

on the nights
when the moon
meets our rising,
i will think of you
and hold myself soft.

(i will open and
you will be
warmed in me.)

but you
are not
my song.

i must keep singing
until i meet myself
and my other.

the love that will see me
the same.

—  Song // Jamie Oliveira
Beginning

I want to return
To the beginning
Before I knew the Earth
Orbited the Sun
And before I knew
The tide would come and go
And the moon would pull me away
With the water
I want to go back
Before I saw that art could save
And destroy
Before I heard that song
That made me cry and soar and flee
Before I felt the Earth crack in two
Below my feet
It opened up and swallowed me
Whole
Before the light of millions of years
Came flooding from the darkest corners
Of the universe
And burned into my eyes
Igniting me
Ablaze in eternity and infinite light
I want to return to the beginning
Before Spanish class on winter days
And Essex accents in my ear
Before the Eiffel Tower
And Big Ben
Before Hastings and Athens and everything
Back to the beginning
The beginning of it all
I’ll call you Adam
Your name is no good to me anymore
It hurts my tongue to say
I wish to cut it from my mouth
Take me back
Take me home
Down those winding London roads
Back to the beginning
The end far out of reach
Let me sink into the sand
Of that California beach
As the waves come crashing in
And drag me to the sea
Let us drown together
Eternally
Just you and me
I’ll be your Eve
Grant me reprieve
Let me be free
I beg of you
Please.

Original Work: KH, July 2015

“Falling in love’s a strange thing,” she whispers to you as she tucks that piece of hair behind your ear and brushes her lips against your forehead. “It’s kind of like you’re swimming and somewhere along the way a tidal wave drags you into the deep end.”

“And at some point you wake up,” a drop of water lands on your forehead, and you look up to see tears pooling in her hazel gaze, “and you realise you’re not swimming anymore, you’re sinking. Sometimes you’ll get your head above water just long enough to see that they’re not sinking with you, they’re standing on shore watching you drown.”

“Sounds scary,” you say as you grab her hand between your small, soft fingers.

“Oh darling, it is,” she smiles through her tears. “Falling in love is one of the most dangerous things a human ever lets themselves do.”

You wonder aloud, “Then why do people do it?”

“Because sometimes you’ll find the one worth sinking for and just before your head’s been under water for a moment too long, just before you give up, just before you stop fighting the current, they’ll drag you to shore and you’ll gasp for fresh air and it’ll be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever felt because they are your fresh air.”

—  Sometimes it’s worth the danger//things you need your mum to tell you, 28/07/2015

Like pouring salt into
open wounds, I
feel the sting of your
presence as if
death never touched you,
and miles were just
numbers that could
be counted on
one hand.

I miss goofy grins and
afternoon tea,
soup and saltines,
long walks in New York
rainstroms.

I miss the feeling of
weightlessness,
wind flowing
through dark hair
and brushing
away unwanted tears.

I miss feeling
whole.

For freefallinletters because she’s amazing and I wanted to write for her tonight :3

A Memory I Can't Place

There’s this strange memory I have, of a man from my elementary school years.

He wasn’t my father or my step father. I am really not sure who he was, but I seem to remember a white moustache.

And I definitely remember his voice. It was slightly Southern, but in that California wannabe-cowboy way. He spoke softly, and I remember him kindly despite my under-appreciation of cowboys in general.

And I remember his words, and their context. He would ask me a simple question when I was in trouble, and it would make me think.

Despite the mystery, and my reputation as a satirist (a text-based one, where you can never tell if I’m serious or not), this is a real memory of mine. And I truly cannot place it, though I can recall multiple times that this man would speak to me. He must’ve been a friend of my mother’s, a pre-step-dad boyfriend or something.

One was a lesser squabble, one was a proper fist-fight that I had been suspended for.

The man asked me, “Were you in the right?”

And I said, “No.” Whoever this man was, I never lied to him.

And he’d pause for affect, before asking gently,

“Well did you try your best?”

The answer was always “no” as well, but I would just smile and avert my gaze.

And in my mind, I’d say “Next time, I’ll try harder.”

I’ve been trying to stop loving you
ever since you never loved me,
but your drunken secrets say that
you’ve been in love with me; and
I’m not sure if it was because I
wanted so badly to believe you
but I wrote a poem about it.
Because if I wrote about it it makes
it all the more real.

If I wrote about it, I could pretend
that it wasn’t the alcohol talking,
and that we had the perfect love story.
But I’ve been trying to stop loving
you, and this isn’t a poem to say
that you finally realized you love me
too.

It’s a poem to say that ever
since I’ve been trying to stop
loving you, alcohol has been my
favorite lover.

Let’s talk about
The night you didn’t come home.

Sure -
I got a text,
brief
rushed
“sorry” “love you”

But let’s talk about
The clothes you left with
That never returned,
The marks on your thighs
And the shame in your eyes.

Let’s talk about
How you haven’t let me touch you
in months,
How you turn away
From my lips.

Let’s talk about
How our home is an empty chasm
of meaningless gestures
and vacuous grins.

Let’s talk about
Your hushed phone calls
Covert to conception
and
All the subsequent nights you didn’t come home.

Or,
Maybe
We’ll talk about our day
Pretending that there’s still something
Left for us to say.

-  Post-it note poems when I should be working #8

And as she plummets to her death, cursing my name with her last breath, I remind her:
This may be the result of my twisted machinations, but it’s your fault.
You jumped. I didn’t push you.
You didn’t fall.
You made a choice.
It may be my voice in your head, editing my own sentences into ones more appealing - more full of trickery
But it’s your voice that said it was okay to love someone so damaged
I would never say such a thing.
I would warn you against believing that I could be anything other than what I am - what I’ve always been, what I will continue to be;
My voice is the one that first said “don’t love me” and then took his own words as a challenge.
You should have been the smart one.
You should have never given me the time of day.
And when you hit the pavement, ass-over-tea-kettle -
You rose to declare the love you have discovered
And you looked up at a vacant ledge.