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would you take
my scarred hands
and hold them
even if
they clawed and
scratched and
bit?
would you collect my
teardrops in your
palms
and create galaxies out of
the azure drops?
would you look me in the eye
as tears tumbled aimlessly
down my
pink-hued cheeks?
my heart has been broken
and thrown carelessly from canopies.
my heart 
needs no savior
but instead a companion,
one to close my eyes to
the rest of the world with.
.
I have always known you
Stranger,
In this whirling tavern,
Where life is plasmic.

You speak with sweetest
Nothings,
In my groping, deaf ears,
Where sense is non.

And now we are laying
Hollow,
On this letted, fresh bed,
Without any clues.

Your are plain, beautiful
Stranger,
Your hands ply my soul,
As bees on dry flower.
J,
When people ask me about my first love,
I remember the smell of melted crayons.
Not your smile, your golden skin, or the way your face would wrinkle in deep thought.
But about the carelessness of a child in your backseat,
And how with help from the sun,
your car was forever perfumed by a melted, purple Crayola.
I grew to love this scent.
It's an odd thing to even say aloud now.
However, it's permanently imprinted in my mind.
Over summers spent in your car and nights staring into your eyes,
I grew infatuated with this waxy, sweet aroma that filled the air between us.
It became your cologne that stayed with my clothes while you were away,
My comfort when you were near.
It was never sickening or invasive,
But desired and wanted.
So when people ask me about my first love,
I tell them about this boy who always smelled of crayons and how much I miss him.
Waves speak
to the shore
in rippled verse
scattered shell
strands of kelp

in the sand
each visitor
inscribes a story
sandpiper, wigeon, crow
raccoon, otter, coyote


I read each one
as I write my own
She pulls me in
the tide goes out

The Moon and I
are old friends
I only keep three message history on my phone:
my parents.
my brother.
and that last conversation we had months ago.
 Oct 2016 Andreas Sfakianakis
Leo
the voice of the dim cathedral
haunts my bones
its slim fingers wrap around my neck
and through my skull
a voice from many
releases dawn on the backs of my eyelids
and sets fire to my ribs
a boy beckons us to hail true body
freeing me from earthly restraints
ave verum corpus : william byrd, ora
Music was his passion. Guitar his life.

So she went on to become a string of his guitar... The best cord producing the sweetest music ever.

Suddenly life happened.
Fate got her pressed, bruised.
Finally broken.

And then... He replaced the broken string for a new one.
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