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Amy Leigh Jan 7
How easy to
give   ourselves    over    in   skin   and
sentimental   patterns   yet    thoughts
traced   in   darkness   dishonest   and
daunting as if our bodies could really
tell lies

© A. Leigh
Amy Leigh Dec 2018
Cold red roses like
when the tips  turn  black and
the edges start  to  wither. His
fury — words   of   ice.   These
shattered  illusions  of   subtle
situations  gone  astray.  He  is
the  read  betweens.  He­ is the
metaphor that lingers.  It  cuts
deep and this time there is no
going back.

© A. Leigh
Amy Leigh Oct 2018
Simple    distractions.    The   ease
of subdued conversations.  We lie
to one  another  because we lie to
ourselves   first.  
                               These   exchanges —
what  really  is   the  hidden   meaning
behind these  overzealous accusations
and   forthcoming   of   presumptuous
acts?  
            What  is  truth  in  subtle subjection's
and    altruistic   annexations?   We   cannot
sleep at night. The most evolutionary of  all
humanly cycles—broken.  Are you broken?

I am.


© A. Leigh
Maybe it is not so simple after all.
Amy Leigh Oct 2018
He   inhaled   deep,  exhaled   slow.  We
were    alone,   alas!   The    sun   setting
the   way  it   does   every  night,  except
noticeably   slow  — calm;   palpitatious
patterns    of   sunset  hitting  fragments
of  dust  gliding, glistening through  the
air.  I  watched   them —  the  minuscule
molecules.  Oh! How tiny! — Otherwise
unseen!  Yet,  there,  circling  — evading
space around us, or perhaps us  around
them,  as  if   in  their  existence,  maybe,
not small after all.  And too, it is similar,
these  drawn   conclusions   like   drawn
curtains  to  light.  However, simple, yet
kind  of  comical, that  there I was in my
existence,  nestled cuddled  snuggled —
delightfully  cozy.  Evidently  small  too,
like them.

© A. Leigh
Thank you for all the love you gave.
Amy Leigh Oct 2018
These    aches  — I  feel  them  through
the      neck   and   shoulders,   tension
up    through    cracks   and     crevices,
like       the       way      you      left    an  
impression. Fluid,  let's  move forward  
swift     and     sound.     Poignant    like
oceanic      waves   —   propelling!     or,  
neritic    waters — upwelling!  or   even,
tidal  sloughs or  currents— continuous.
I   will   feel  it  all — in like water to the
body, out   like   tears  from   the    eyes.
Admittedly,    the  horizon  does feel far
and    I  am   scared.   However,  maybe
I    am    not   lost  after  all,  maybe  the
journey is now  begging and  truthfully,
this   does  alleviate   some  of  the  pain.

© A. Leigh
Amy Leigh Oct 2018
Misguided —  we    were    inseparable,   but   things
as  they  do,   always  with   certainty   like  life itself,
change.  These different directions on winding roads
upwards and  even  edged  to  cliffs —these  dangers
in solemn  yet  ostentatious  affirmations: the  I don't
knows   paired   with   the    I    am    sure's.    Which?
Between  the  I  love  you's  and  the   rarity  of  these
honest intentions - these *****  affections with tears diluted  between  breaths. Surely, it was true; true as
formations   upon   mouth   tongue   cheek   in   ***** patterns tracing  up  and  down  skin, hands to thigh
and  then  some — yet now.

© A. Leigh
Amy Leigh Oct 2018
Window  lines, a dressed building to the
nines.   Lady  in  a  red  dress, the streets
are filled  with madness, and fresh food
on  tables   covering   *****   streets  with
butted cigarettes. It's beautiful, chic. The
window smiles, the building sighs with
relief.   Tomorrow,  repeat.   Life  in  the
mercat.

© A. Leigh
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