asphyxiophiliaWhisper

American
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SleepwalkingFor me, love has always been like sleepwalking. I never remember how I get there but there are always footprints behind me in the snow that appear to be the same size as my own. Somehow I ended up there again, with my face turned upward and the wind kissing it. Whoever compared love to warmth was lying. It is cold. It is the inch between solid ground and frozen lake that you can't see. It is the fog that clings to the tops of trees and softly whispers your name. It is the frost on your window that reminds you how easily things can break. The worst part of falling in love is falling out of love. The worst part of sleepwalking is waking up. / You woke up.
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Feb 13, 2014
Something We Never DidI have imagined this moment over and over again and now it's finally happening and I can't quite tell which direction is up or down or backwards but I guess they're all directions so it really doesn't matter as long as I'm going somewhere. I've been watching my shoelaces as I've been walking and they seem to tighten with every step as though even they know you'll have me floating right out of them. My palms have already begun to sweat and the puddles they've created in my pockets are just deep enough to drown in. I look up for a second to see the air in front of me holding a string. A grin spreads across its face as it suddenly begins to pull and my breath is stolen from my lungs. I reach out to grab it but it has already disappeared and suddenly I realize I can't breathe without you here. I close my eyes and stumble, not wanting to go any further, not wanting to face the reality of a situation that doesn't involve sleeping beside you. But then I realize, that was something we never did. I have been falling asleep beside myself for years, I have been waking up with regret and a heart broken into more pieces then the number of tiles on the bathroom floor. I have been sleeping with my head on my own chest and praying that someday you'd fill the empty space between not being able to fall asleep and never wanting to be awake.
1
Oct 30, 2013
A Little Something About Loving GhostsI have always imagined your touch as sunlight / As the heat trapped beneath my blanket when I first wake up / As the rug warming my bare feet in the morning
15
Oct 23, 2013
It Only Takes One StepIt only takes one step to walk over the edge / And if your heart is as cracked as the canyon under your feet, / I suggest you back away from it
17
Oct 9, 2013
You Shouldn't Kiss GuardrailsYou shouldn't kiss guardrails / Because they have chapped lips / And the jagged edges
34
Sep 6, 2013
Home (But Not Really)The carpet is frayed in the hallway / And the nails along the walls are facing upwards / As reminders that any attempt to
27
Sep 1, 2013
The Budget InnIf every button on your blouse and jeans / Were the knobs of the doors / Of the Budget Inn
25
Aug 31, 2013
SecretsI have always believed that it is possible to see through the defenses of those who keep secrets tucked into their back pockets like wallets with a little more cash than they are comfortable with, if one is willing to look closely enough. It is apparent in their heavy eyelids, as though the weight of what they are carrying is resting on their eyelashes. It is apparent in the curve of their lips, and the way they are not able to smile to their fullest potential. It is apparent in their hands, and the way they are not able to hold anything, as though their fingers are already full. However, I never realized that it was also possible to notice leaves clutching secrets to their chests like keepsake necklaces passed down by their great-grandmothers until one afternoon when I was walking between two bushes. My feet were carrying me lackadaisically down the sidewalk toward my dormitory when something to my right caught my eye. Among a congregation of green leaves, I noticed one blushing sinner. She sat in the center, as though she was attempting to blend in, but her pink cheeks made her stand out from the rest. When everyone stood in unison, she followed a few seconds behind. When everyone clutched hymns and bibles in their hands, she tied her fingers in knots to appear busy. When everyone partook in communion, she bit her lip quietly. But there was something about the way she held her hands in her lap, with her palms pressed together and her fingers interlocked, and the way she wore her hair behind her shoulders in curls that made me want to get to know her and every secret she kept tucked beneath the belt of her summer dress. But we don’t always get the pleasure of conversing with sinners, and we often are not even willing to have those conversations with ourselves.
1
Aug 26, 2013
Leave The Light OnLeave the light on for me. / I know it's late, / And I'm out wandering the streets
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Aug 21, 2013
You Are NotYour hands are not sandpaper / You can't round my sharp edges, / Or scratch away the good parts of me.
29
Aug 17, 2013
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