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ciannie Dec 2015
if I asked, beckoned you close
whispered sweets and teas and
soft words, sentenced comfort
opened my arms and begged
you there, would you come?

take off your hoodie, your top
bras on the floor, maybe mine
maybe yours, maybe from both
or just me, I think, if it's you there
reading- the one I am thinking of

no clothes but underwear, because
that's a comfortable thing, to feel the
sheets against skin, flesh to flesh, and
yet to keep something covered, fine
hairs in check, no friction, so we can
slip close together, smooth, lithe, solid

only a portion of our heads on the
pillows: half on, half off, equally so
chins sunk into the mattress, blanket
overhead, a cave for just the outlines
of our faces, and the meeting of both
our breaths, warming bare chests

flushed nose, *******, tummy, shoulders
plush under palm as touched, held, gentle
this is a new kind of ***, of making love
and it involves just your eyes and hands
above the waist, rolling over the hips, to
study. revise me. learn each crinkle and
every dip. all my curves, a puzzle from
each pimple, the roundabout of my ears
my see-saw lips, umbrella eyes that don't
and wont keep out the rain that will flow
over my hilled cheeks, and maybe yours
if you find where I am wanting you to be
close, warm, plush, alone and lying with me
ciannie Dec 2015
with a hair tuck the atoms bent
to curl in a loop around her ear
compressed into a snaking stream
of custard comets, pouring down
her neck, over collar bones, passed
the ribcage made of gold limestone
holding grains of sparrows eggs turned
to sand, from ten thousand years ago

seeping into skin, grey fake tan of
statues, mountains, ocean beds alike
the ache in the pulse at her wrist from
the steady thrum injection of the worlds
squeezed, twisted, turned and churned
into a potion, a medicinal miracle, a fine
powder substance that grows at liquid's

dripping through her palms, fingertips
to create a stain upon the sugar paper
flesh of others, like a children's picture
turned tattoo in highlighted colour and
sound, drumming into ears, road works
on the way to the brain, cause a migraine
cells screeching to infiltrate all they touch
bred, genetically modified, embitterment
of the human race, a flawless system of
this, that, none other, its aim to destruct
befores and reconstruct them differently
against the wishes of the girl who calmly
indifferently, lazily, unknowingly, seductively
tucked that lock of hair behind her ear.
not drugs.
ciannie Nov 2015
if we hadn't have met that way
would we have met any other?
that's the question I hate to think.

there can't be an answer to it, I feel
because you definitely did come to
and are in my life, but still, even so

would I have known you in the way
we hold each other now? so close? so
deeply fallen in our time, in each other?

I cannot say, but I can still hope, even
if that hoping is silly, since you have me
and I have you, and we have that weight

of knowing the other is in our hands, trust
like non other. keeping each other safe, like
our song promises us. close, close in hand

we understand it was circumstances, lucky
lucky circumstances getting us close enough
to one another for our souls to connect, and touch

we understand it could have gone another way
but fortune is ours, and we ruled those circumstances
king and queen of those gifts granted sweetly to us

and from those circumstances, we made vows
to keep each other safe throughout the seasons
of our life. how lucky. how fortunate. how lovely.
yeeeet another soft one
ciannie Nov 2015
it's the leaves that smell, sat there
like soggy cornflakes on the pavement.

we kick them up, they stick and stink
and loudly we love the scent, love the magic.

the air is drizzly and the sky is flat like the
soda we have in your rucksack, waiting.

no one else is around, and though the sky is pregnant
the clouds haven't given birth

so we keep the umbrella down, and maybe if we are lucky
we can be like Mary Poppins and fly away together

but no, the wind is lazy today, and our feet ache
but we twist, you scoop me up

my shoes muddy your jacket, you catch my hair in your zip
we fall to the damp ground

and as our breath meets before the kiss, the sky decides to open up
and we become drenched.

but it's okay, because that kiss warms away all the ice
and we sit with the cereal leaves, together, and the smell is nice.
another soft one
ciannie Nov 2015
curling around each other
like two shells pushed, intertwined
by the thrashing waves.

the sheets were crisp, now
they are slept on, rumpled, a white Sahara
from a birds-eye-view

a leg moves up a leg, shifting hills
hand roaming over curves, in crooks, through hairs
travelling fingers on a familiar space

warm, aging, with lines where
the flesh was once plump and new, unused
undiscovered by the other

days after days, through years and years
in that bed, coupled, through seasons, in and out of clothes
each change subtly accepted

every kiss shared, every entwining
kept boxed in the duvet, imprints of every evening
or day spent here

pressing close, bodies and souls
laced in the tightest, toughest, inseparable knot
clenched together

the mirrored smiles, low breathing
domed, encased there, while the atmosphere outside billows
lying forever
soft and ahh, I hope
ciannie Nov 2015
the jaded bird took his perch
in branches thick with voice
his song a croak, his beak quite broke
a lovely sight, though unlovely noise

a plumed up bird, dressed in furs
cut into his space
she sang quite sweet, high and neat
sang right into his face

the jaded bird, of course, was hurt
by that most spiteful act
he moaned in pain, never sang again
until a finger tapped his back

a timely toad, brown and slowed
eyes blinking with slime
opened his mouth, north to south
and took his merry time

he sang a sound that squelched around
his throat before release
then he bellowed loud, and sore and proud
and the bird fell to his knees

the toad taught the bird, who listened, who heard
who was patient, feathers bristling
they sang together, sung for forever
and never cared about who was listening
story ish again.
ciannie Nov 2015
a girl found a crown on the street
clink, clank, and rolling to her feet
cold gold touched her pinkish toes-
during inspection the jewels bit her nose

she wore it all day long, in strength
found her chores list lessen in length
people blinded by it's brilliant glint
it gleamed eyes away, replaced the print

each precious stone reworked memories
envious green glass once enemies
now pink, mirrored, singular, hers
to match the crown, she wore silver furs

her cloak dragged upon the ground
other children picked it up, and found
themselves wrapped inside and gone
the village became smaller, the cloak became long

the elders dug deep at the edge of their home
while the girl was away, living alone
they discovered bones, gnawed to stumps
bugs and beetles, full, in mounds and humps

they fit the girl's old clothes perfectly
renewed dead flesh, but hurtfully
her eyes were gone, the crown's centrepiece
the flesh left again, puddled their knees

the girl had died and was eaten, long ago
it took some time, they cried, but now we know
the metal melted her fat and skin and sinew
pock-marked her bones, rotted right through

replaced a monster with her spirit, living dead
used her soul as the cloak's first thread
vacuumed others, knitted them close and thick
a pretty trinket turned poisonous trick

the elders chased the monster away
along with their children, that day
they cried and created new children, then
never let them wander again.
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