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nadine shane Jun 2023
i love like a mangled dog,
rummaging through the grimiest corners
for some sort of semblance
of tranquility disguised as chaos

fangs constantly bared
but ceaselessly yearning
to be a subject of someone’s affection

tell me,
how do i stop loving like this?
contorted. star-eyed. gullible.

tell me,
how do i stop being loved
with anything but love?

until then,
i’ll still wait for you by the porch
tied on a leash too close to my pulse.

i’ll keep on waiting.
(when) are you coming back?
are you coming back?
nadine shane Jul 2018
recurrent moonlit distractions
captured by words
tied down into morsels;
separated and concealed,
contiguous yet sheer greetings
of each other’s skin
had left wanton burns
and gushing streams
of a brooding lover’s propensity
for unsusceptible matters of the heart.

there, he stood,
on the precipice of tomorrows;
ruminating and scrupulous,
forlorn yet never dithering
over mundane and quintessential quandaries
of the tepid gloss of incertitude
dangling off syllables
dictated by sordid agony.

there, he stood,
in the midst of everything;
from the otiose adoration
poured out of empty caskets
to the lenitive shades of his eyes.

with the ripples of moonlight,
the gestalt of doleful flower-like hearts,
there, she stood,
and waited.
and waited some more.

(did you like this poem, tof?)
nadine shane Dec 2017
december twenty-seven,
your name still rings
from the atrophy
you had bestowed upon me.

how reckless,
the way i love with
trembling fingers
guiding you to every
isolated destinations
withering through every touch.

i could not speak,

for your eyes
spoke of the
inaudible string of utterance
i could not quite decipher.

december twenty-seven
how forlorn,
the way you left me
without an explanation.
thus, i hated the twenty-seventh.
nadine shane Aug 2018
yearning for something
i desire;

what lies beneath
the ivory duvet
when the rays of the sun
spares a shy glance
around the nook and cranny
of your room;

hands aching
to lace around yours;
waiting to taste sweet you,
bitterness slowly creeping
up to its own demise,
this is why the maidens
sung their hearts out
to accompany
the grieving tremors
that shook the faulty edges
we had built,
atop of guilt and uncertainties.

flustered sheets scattered
on the floor,
pieces of myself
i can no longer get back to
whilst a gaping hole
greeting my own eyes
held a fragment of truth and silence.

( this is not my home;
this is the apparition’s
treacherous threshold. )

yearning for something
i lost;

the warmth of your embrace,
contrasting with the
glare of the sun
pouring down on me,
easiness could never
give justice to you;

sly brushes of lips against my skin,
as if chanting
bohemian chants
all over me
to get out of this
witchcraft that we call love;

longingness in your eyes,
a renaissance painting
in front of you,
begging to feel
the constellations
in your hands
cascading through
every vein in me.

still, i feel something coil
deep inside me,
were you truly mine?
again, you fill me with doubts.
nadine shane Jul 2021
these days
feel so abundantly empty;

i have become absolutely enamored
with the way our silence lulls us to sleep;
embracing each other's warmth and company.

but, alas, such bitter fate.

now, i try to fill the void with mindless chatters
but it all remains futile.

everything hurts without you.
was this how you felt? i am rambling again, i cannot make sense of what i want to say to you
nadine shane Nov 2017
he said to you on a friday afternoon,
a cup of coffee
held by hands
which dilapidated
on top of
deific disasters;

“promises are meant to be broken,” whispering,
like he did not want you
to hear the inner war cry
he kept on using
at nights he stayed awake,
only his thoughts as a perfect company
as he keeps a conversation
only the moon and him
know the existence of.

when you reached out to hold his hands
that were painted in shades of blue and grey,
it felt like forever
since your hands brushed
something so eloquent
even after the ungodly hours
he still called his decisions as mistakes,

or when he promised you
that the grandeurs of life
are crushed into smithereens
on his sturdy palms,
not telling you about the stubborn apparitions
refusing to let go
of everything it once held dear;

when he flipped through the pages
of a worn-out scrapbook
like it was your
place of solitude,
staring at each snapshot longingly;

when he promised you that
he, too, would not let go
even after the nights
he calculated the
possibility of you leaving him;

when he told you
that he was a troubled painter,
sketching the familiar taste of dysphoria
dawning over him every time
he was told he was onerous;

when he promised you that
he would finish every painting
but he kept each canvas hidden
under the floor boards.

you told him on a saturday morning,
a cup of tea
held by puckish hands
which built walls
around everything
your little heart desired,

“then, why make them?”
i had to rewrite this piece a lot of times bc i didnt like how i ended it each time but woOps, here it is.
nadine shane Jul 2018
a distinct feature
in my appearance
would be
the bags under my eyes;

i remember staying up
until my bones quiver
under the bewitching spells
of the moon’s forgotten raving sonatas,
enticing enough to cradle
an iota of dejected sentiments
from centuries and centuries ago.

i remember looking up
at the night sky
until my eyes flicker from dust to ashes,
burning the crevices of every wall i built,
graveyards broken down
to match the unmatched
bleakness of the ignominious sorrow
peeking out of the corner of your soles.

i remember laying down,
not once had silence became overbearing
that i could hear the faintest brush
of a weightless feather falling
from a tainted nest,
aching to meet its pernicious lover.

i remember closing my eyes,
shifting everything elsewhere;
still, i dread the feeling of compunction
emerging deep from
the landmines of mistakes
that i had claimed as my home
and my shelter.

but this, i could never forget:
i remember
being envious of you;
how you do not
lay awake at night,
wondering if things
could have been better.
i still love you (always)
nadine shane Nov 2019
the nights devoid of holiness
always seemed
to find itself tangled
with the crestfallen visage
always plastered on mine.

a close acquaintance of mine
would be the moon--

glimmering and illuminating
the regrets and mistakes
emblazoned deeply
onto every fibre of my being.

my dreaded moment has come--
the clock made itself known;
reverberating
through the fragile threshold
i dared to call my home.

once more,
it made me a fool
for believing
i could be liberated
from this labyrinth.
make it stop.
nadine shane Aug 2018
i am tired
of waking up
in the middle of the night
at the sound of
my skin tearing itself apart,
i can no longer remove
the stamp of
your lips and hands
off me;
my sides splitting open
so my scars ensconced
deep beneath the surface
can tell the story
of how i fell for you.

i am tired
of staying up
with nothing but
the company of the moon,
awaiting for its eclipse,
blinking away
fragments of what we had —
filled to the brim
with adoration —
although fleeting.

memories of
how you held me —
only distant.

again,
the clock chimed
unforgivingly,
reminding me
of late night drive throughs
around the crevices
of my wreckage of thoughts —
spilled and separated;
full of you,
only you.
(until now)

milky boy!
nadine shane Aug 2019
would it be selfish of me
to ask for more
than sneaky glances here and there?

mouths desperate
to form sentences
to confabulate with you
but i rebel against my own body,
incorrigible mutters
bolting its way out of my lips.

would it be selfish of me
to ask for more
than an hour to spend with you?

eyebrows knitting together
in confusion
as you laugh
about matters of the heart,
looking through me
with perceptive eyes
and i try not to look away.

but fate
has a terrible affinity
for separating the two of us,

so i wish
we werent back to square one
but that would be wistful thinking.
dont leave me hanging again. how cruel of  you.
you
nadine shane Nov 2017
you
you always had an affinity for the complexities of life,
clutching onto precarious thresholds
that you vehemently
refuse to call
a bereavement

you always had an affinity for
bodies of matter that refuse to take
care of you back,
an abundance of saturnine
sentiments is what you are
made of

you always had an affinity for
convoluted recidivism
that always seemed to mar
the ineffable reverie
constantly buzzing in
your head

you always had an affinity for
a jargon's mouth,
wanting to emblazon the
sporadic tribulation along
the interstices of your
deleterious wreckage

you always had an affinity for
everything quintessential
that your reticent heart
can glom.
this is a mess tbh

— The End —