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Three strikes and you're out.
Be careful where you step.
This heart was carved from thin ice.
Don't gamble on me,
I'm worth more than your dice.
 Mar 2014 Anna Abreu
Dear
she asked
"what do you even write?"  
We write
testimonies
pleas
and defenses
our pen, the judge and the jury
we write of the rythymn and the dead space between beats.
our message is the vibrations that barrel out of the belly of the drum
our words encompass the spectrum of light
we write the fuse
we are the piston
we are the face and hands of the clock, the numbers, and the tic tock
we write you.
we write ourselves.
we write strangers and phantoms and projections.
we write wrongs
we write mysteries our reader resolves.
we write eyes, hearts, and minds
tangible soul tales for the deaf and blind.
 Mar 2014 Anna Abreu
iridescent
When our time comes,
float down like
autumn leaves.

Make our descents
with graceful pirouttes
guided by the soft winds;
empty branches will
leave behind reasons
for the fiery red that once laid
to be missed;
and light that seeps through
the hollow canopy shall
cleanse our fallen souls.

So when our time comes,
float down like autumn leaves.
Wear white gowns
that snowflakes weaved for us;
leave no more
footprints in the ground,
we've trampled on
their hearts enough;
bittersweet when they
think of us dancing above,
weightless and unrestrained.
 Mar 2014 Anna Abreu
Chris
It’s 4:27 AM on a Thursday.
You say I have so much left to give,
even if I have no one to give it to.
I wish I had more to
[these pieces don’t fit]
even if you don’t want any of it.

It’s getting colder outside,
I just keep thinking
more about [ ]
I just keep thinking more
about you.

You were a lot of things for me,
you were an anchor in
you taught me to
but you were never mine.

There are no oceans left
in my fingertips.
Your eyes have

and that’s okay.

[nothing fits]

It’s 5:13 AM on a Thursday.
I’ve figured out how we’re different;
you’re doing okay without me.

I tried writing the other day,
but you took everything when you left.
I was never a writer anyways,
I was just in love with you.
 Mar 2014 Anna Abreu
Sub Rosa
Taste
 Mar 2014 Anna Abreu
Sub Rosa
Your voice touched me more
than your lips ever could.
10w
 Mar 2014 Anna Abreu
dreadfulmind
“I keep everything inside; I am
a wine cellar of unsaid things.
This is why my love letters burn
like whiskey - every word is
fermented with all the fluff
evaporated off. I love in a way
that leaves people on the floor.”
— anne, on why you feel drunk when I write to you
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