Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
briana olive Apr 2010
send me a breeze, baby blue
maybe i'll swim on that love, to
her speckle-dust cobwebs
fingerstemmed
in her skin
tinting my feathered heart
with her mosaic smile,
shards of a past she screams,
"stay a while,


baby blue"
long enough to hold her frozen hands,
kicking at the ashes
sift.
sift through
breaststroke through the debri


i caught your smile,
and fed it to,
the holes in her heart
wearing her
in
out

in & out.
briana olive Apr 2010
one minute;
she could hear her own heels clicking,
clicked
against the sharpened dirt of her backyard
next minute;
the patterns of her footsteps lost,
as the ground puzzle-piece disappeared
beneath her firefly laced eyes;

one minute;
gasping cold water breaths,
as the laughter rang bright in the ears
of a mother, a father
chasing after ponytailed hair,
laughter rang bright in the ears
of a mother, a father
next minute;
choking on her paralyzing
wonder, the ground choking
on the dust splitting,
split
beneath the absence of the
click in her heels


I wonder if her eyes closed before she
plunged into the depths of her knowledge’s death
I wonder,
what schemes she sought,
            that would forever be,
            incomplete.

Did she bloom roses?
            Petals buried beneath
            the debris
of a mother, a father.
briana olive Apr 2010
Maybe,
I could spread a thousand constellations on the ceiling of your palms
--dig them honeysuckle deep into my ridges;
            & to be blind to the oncoming melodies, when the blue and black bees come singing
            i will sweep the petals under my eyes and blink them,
             shuttered shut.
& we will still remain, intertwined:
fingerstems of you in my skin
will those cluster bees follow me
bleed their ink into my serenity
briana olive Apr 2010
separate the petals from the cobwebs on the floor,
and grow roses from the life that remains;
but if their lullabyes have faded,
leave them be
to eat the sunshine
crawling through the cracks in your window-
***** with handprints of laughing children
“they don’t come around anymore”-
maybe,
the petals could grow stems of longing,
growing orchids
in your field of ashes.
rough draft

— The End —