you can blame it on the dark of night
or the trick of the light
or the half bottle of wine
but I won't forgive the time
you called me 'baby'
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
I want to ruin you
not in the
"Yeah bro I got that girl in my bed and we ****** until she couldn't breathe and yeah I guess it was iight for me"
no
I want to ruin you in the Ernest Hemingway
way
I want your favorite song to be so haunted by our memories that it causes you to call me when the first note is played
I want to be the cloud on your sunshine of a day
when I'm not around
I want to be the guest that's overstayed
the one the housekeeper can't turn away
because they've grown fond of the smiles they greet each other with when they pass in the halls
I want to be the chocolate left on your pillow
The dust that you don't remove from your window
I want to be your favorite thimble
that you when you're sewing up my patchy sweats that I can't bear the throw away because I like the way they cling to my hips
I want to cling to yours lips
I want to be your favorite sweater that you wear to sleep at night
I want to hold your head like a pillow
I want to catch your dreams with thread woven through my fingertips and I'll even tie on some feathers
and you'll say I was create by the ancient cherokee tribe
I want to be the contact that protects those beautiful eyes
I want to kayak down the waterfalls they produce when you find out bad news
Yes
I want to ruin you
But I want you to ruin me, too.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
You were the dream I awoke from, hand out-stretched, trying to shovel all the air into my mouth because I couldn't breathe at the thought of you
You were my bare legs when I looked down at school and realized I was only in my boxers
We've all had that dream
My psychology professor was bold enough to say even children have the ability to speak a sentence in words that have never been strung together before
You were every new syllable that came out of my tired, 4 a.m. mouth
You were the place I went to when my brain relaxed
You were the girl, tired of love poems, so I said I'd write one about the twenty-seven steps it takes for a caterpillar to turn into a butterfly
But have you ever noticed how much effort a butterfly puts into flapping it's wings
versus how content a caterpillar is just to munch on some leaves
Look at what this has turned out to be
A love poem of something that used to be so brilliant that maybe we were taking our own twenty-seven steps but some curious child was too busy plucking us up to squash us down when they could have been stringing together a new sentence the world has never heard
and I'm sorry
That we are nothing now except traces left on a child's hand
We are nothing but twenty-seven incomplete steps
We are nothing but unspoken words
we are nothing now
but you're still the dream I awake from sometimes
There are still fingerprints of yours on my bare legs
you're still etched into the fabric of my boxers
you're still there, you're still there
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC