roannemanio - Hello Poetry

You know this boy for a minute. And still you kiss like long lost friends. He doesn’t sing. He is beneath the landslide, maybe in a champagne sky. You miss him. In that moment he is there and he is not. And softly he pulls you in, but is he not ungraspable memory? A woman-made construct like time. Like love.

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Sep 2, 2022

Sep 2, 2022 at 10:52 AM UTC

Tender Supernova

You know this boy for a minute. And still you kiss like long lost friends. He doesn’t sing. He is beneath the landslide, maybe in a champagne sky. You miss him. In that moment he is there and he is not. And softly he pulls you in, but is he not ungraspable memory? A woman-made construct like time. Like love.

4

How I long for your wide open sky. I long for your sunbeams and your rain—whatever falls into my mouth, I will gladly take in. August. How I cling to all your pasts and all your uncertain futures. I cling to your promise of ever ever green and I wait at your doorstep, naive nymph from nether. Was it for nothing, August? Do I keep you on my tongue and never in my heart? August. August. Endless pastures and lightning-laden nights. Your fleeting love speaks through the dark.

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Aug 10, 2022

Aug 10, 2022 at 7:49 AM UTC

So this is August.

How I long for your wide open sky. I long for your sunbeams and your rain—whatever falls into my mouth, I will gladly take in. August. How I cling to all your pasts and all your uncertain futures. I cling to your promise of ever ever green and I wait at your doorstep, naive nymph from nether. Was it for nothing, August? Do I keep you on my tongue and never in my heart? August. August. Endless pastures and lightning-laden nights. Your fleeting love speaks through the dark.

11

Still— The witching hour, a pond at dawn. Still— Nevertheless, after all this time, I look for you in a sea of people.

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Jun 25, 2022

Jun 25, 2022 at 9:48 PM UTC

Untitled

Still— The witching hour, a pond at dawn. Still— Nevertheless, after all this time, I look for you in a sea of people.

7

Your stairs shrieked like an infant at midnight and your walls haunted my dreams. Still you housed my hands that touched so tenderly your floors, your mold, your crown. Your windows stared: eyes on a hill. And I wonder what it feels like to be seen like a monument in a ghost town. You housed my head so constantly swirled, maimed, losing consciousness. You housed me so fiercely, intensely, with a love that sang my restless soul to sleep. Everyday you kept me in your arms, your womb. You framed all my sunsets, my stars, my endless sighs. It is time to let your walls collapse, your doors forever close, but I have left my heart underneath your old, old bones.

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Jun 21, 2022

Jun 21, 2022 at 10:24 AM UTC

Old Bones

Your stairs shrieked like an infant at midnight and your walls haunted my dreams. Still you housed my hands that touched so tenderly your floors, your mold, your crown. Your windows stared: eyes on a hill. And I wonder what it feels like to be seen like a monument in a ghost town. You housed my head so constantly swirled, maimed, losing consciousness. You housed me so fiercely, intensely, with a love that sang my restless soul to sleep. Everyday you kept me in your arms, your womb. You framed all my sunsets, my stars, my endless sighs. It is time to let your walls collapse, your doors forever close, but I have left my heart underneath your old, old bones.

15

The street is illuminated in that shade of orange that makes everything liminal and we move in an opposite direction as the runners. It seemed funny back then— like fish veering away from its school and maybe that’s what we are. As we sink our feet in the slightly muddy field and we sit without care of our light-colored jeans, the fireflies light the dimmest corners. We ooh and ahh like children and maybe that’s what we are. Boy and girl with no faces, no names. I know you by a monosyllable still I come, still, like strangers made bolder by the circumstance and maybe that’s all we are.

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Jun 12, 2022

Jun 12, 2022 at 9:18 AM UTC

What We Were on an Evening in June

The street is illuminated in that shade of orange that makes everything liminal and we move in an opposite direction as the runners. It seemed funny back then— like fish veering away from its school and maybe that’s what we are. As we sink our feet in the slightly muddy field and we sit without care of our light-colored jeans, the fireflies light the dimmest corners. We ooh and ahh like children and maybe that’s what we are. Boy and girl with no faces, no names. I know you by a monosyllable still I come, still, like strangers made bolder by the circumstance and maybe that’s all we are.

16

beneath the tin roof, beside the shrubs of unnameable greens, where white light bouncing off white walls does not touch your skin but sear you all the same⁠— the snip of metal, the lull of sporadic humming, sends you to opiated oblivion, and on your feet: waves of dark hair touch the earth and get blown away lightly, slowly

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Mar 31, 2020

Mar 31, 2020 at 8:19 AM UTC

cutting my hair on a sunday morning

beneath the tin roof, beside the shrubs of unnameable greens, where white light bouncing off white walls does not touch your skin but sear you all the same⁠— the snip of metal, the lull of sporadic humming, sends you to opiated oblivion, and on your feet: waves of dark hair touch the earth and get blown away lightly, slowly

12

Siguro nga'y tayo lamang ang mga tao sa mundo, at ang mga ilaw sa daan ay disenyo lamang ng mga 'di nakikitang kamay, ang matamis na boses na nanggagaling sa kahon ay likha lamang ng ating mga isip, at ang mga katanungang pumupuno sa katahimikan ay guniguni na dulot ng magdamag. Ang puwang ba na pumapagitna ay tulay o dingding? Ang dilim ba'y bunga ng gabi o dahil pareho tayong nakapikit? Malabo ang lansangan sa likod ng salamin ngunit ngayon, sa bulang ito, lahat ay malinaw, totoo.

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Dec 24, 2019

Dec 24, 2019 at 4:04 AM UTC

Salamangka

Siguro nga'y tayo lamang ang mga tao sa mundo, at ang mga ilaw sa daan ay disenyo lamang ng mga 'di nakikitang kamay, ang matamis na boses na nanggagaling sa kahon ay likha lamang ng ating mga isip, at ang mga katanungang pumupuno sa katahimikan ay guniguni na dulot ng magdamag. Ang puwang ba na pumapagitna ay tulay o dingding? Ang dilim ba'y bunga ng gabi o dahil pareho tayong nakapikit? Malabo ang lansangan sa likod ng salamin ngunit ngayon, sa bulang ito, lahat ay malinaw, totoo.

15

A pillow is a pillow and not an extension of you; a shirt is a shirt and not a reminder of the ways you encompass me; a ring is metal and rock, not an upside down promise; or words just a cluster of letters and never your love— because what are words in the grand scheme of things but blankets a little too short, a little too thin? What good are threads if they come loose, unraveling everything? Here I come undone. Here we fray.

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Sep 11, 2019

Sep 11, 2019 at 8:59 PM UTC

Threads

A pillow is a pillow and not an extension of you; a shirt is a shirt and not a reminder of the ways you encompass me; a ring is metal and rock, not an upside down promise; or words just a cluster of letters and never your love— because what are words in the grand scheme of things but blankets a little too short, a little too thin? What good are threads if they come loose, unraveling everything? Here I come undone. Here we fray.

15

when the street lights shadow play across your face and you're your own neon sign and the velvet night feels like a blanket— how electric To revel in your solidness when your grip of the wheel turns your knuckles white and your palm lays on my thigh like that one song I could not stop listening to two years ago To revel in your togetherness when it seems like nothing is changing although everything is and your laughter still resonates within the compact space and the calm in your voice is a deserted beach at midnight To revel in you when the air is sweet the tears, bitter the wounds, rotting the healing, slow— how hauntingly beautiful

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Nov 15, 2018

Nov 15, 2018 at 6:15 AM UTC

To revel in you

when the street lights shadow play across your face and you're your own neon sign and the velvet night feels like a blanket— how electric To revel in your solidness when your grip of the wheel turns your knuckles white and your palm lays on my thigh like that one song I could not stop listening to two years ago To revel in your togetherness when it seems like nothing is changing although everything is and your laughter still resonates within the compact space and the calm in your voice is a deserted beach at midnight To revel in you when the air is sweet the tears, bitter the wounds, rotting the healing, slow— how hauntingly beautiful

22

Maybe the end of the universe does not lie in an explosion or a hole that breathes black, maybe it is right here where stone benches reside and the raindrops taunt like pesky little children waiting for you to see them, loud enough to mimic the silence loud enough to sound like sorrow. Maybe this is the end of the universe— cosmic loneliness. The stars are in a bitter drink and the sun lies anywhere but within you and your moon—why do they say that? To the moon and back?—your moon is a rock in your stomach and only the fingers of the almost rain weighs you down on dear, old Earth, washing you off your tears.

0

Jun 25, 2018

Jun 25, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC

The End of the Universe

Maybe the end of the universe does not lie in an explosion or a hole that breathes black, maybe it is right here where stone benches reside and the raindrops taunt like pesky little children waiting for you to see them, loud enough to mimic the silence loud enough to sound like sorrow. Maybe this is the end of the universe— cosmic loneliness. The stars are in a bitter drink and the sun lies anywhere but within you and your moon—why do they say that? To the moon and back?—your moon is a rock in your stomach and only the fingers of the almost rain weighs you down on dear, old Earth, washing you off your tears.

17