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Carla Michelle Jul 2014
Familiarity in the sea
of everything that would be,
could be abruptly switched over
to some routine
you did not
remember.

May it not be the same
house, when I wake
to keep me warm,
to keep me sane?
And when I wake,
will there be a different odor
to the sheets
stained with familiar
love affairs?
And when I wake,
may I not remember
the hands that could
change my mood
from alone to
deeply satisfied?
And when I wake,
should I not have memorized
the shape of your fingertips,
the walls of your cave,
nor the smell of your linens,
that shall be the day,
when I will start to remember
that I could not bare the
lonely dismissal of your longing
return.

When I wake,
I need to remember.
For everything you are
I am.
And I am far to
deep, to forget you
my dear Sun*.
Carla Michelle Jul 2014
So what if
I liked the sensation of your
bare skin?
Along with the lingering
charisma you leave on
my lips?
And what if
I found your briefs
with a scent of
infidelity and lavender
on the bedside table?
**Now, what if
I murmured
"I still love you."
and under your boiling skin
you smelt
the truth run itself out of my
shower drain?
Carla Michelle Jun 2014
(n)        
world /wərld/*

I will continue to write these things
until I have told you all.

I want the world and it's folds.
I want to fight with you, words
to screams to echoes.
I want to cradle my head
swiftly, like a feather,
into the curves of your shoulders
soon after.
I want to continue an ongoing
counterclockwise motion
while we lay our heavy
backs
on the comfort of a
duvet.
I want to appear at your windowpane
at times where the
rain is the
least of your
worries.
I want to gently caress the
stubble which you bloom
in such a careless manner.

I want to find myself
at the side of yours,
every single time,
every single way,
every single moment when I
start to count the times
I've told myself,
that you are the sun,
and I am the moon.
And my charming world
has been found, with its
folds*.
Carla Michelle May 2014
It was not too long
nor short after
that I woke
in the same hands that
I've known.

Oh but you wouldn't even know,
this feeling of pure
solitude and togetherness
both freely upon each other.
I have faced the fact
that I have already
memorized the ripples of your
skin, the rough form with
soft guidance, and the
bitterly irritating
nibbles on your *hands
.
And I have done so
by merely
watching myself be so
drawn to your touch
day in,
day out,
I've studied these
galaxies for which I've known
as your
hands.  

*And so I woke,
with the contagious
feeling of your hands
covering and caressing
my -
It looks like no writer
can escape the clutches
of their true inspiration.
Daughter of a rocket scientist 
son of a nuclear engineer
and they begat a son

a boy
too starry-eyed to question the stars—
the way they hang in space, the fusion
that keeps them burning brightly,
or how to launch an object past them—
more concerned with the constellations
of perfect freckles found on his beloved's shoulders

a boy 
too enthralled with Existence
and describing it in artful words
to contemplate its composition
or to ponder Existence's place
on Other Worlds

a boy 
enraptured with the Changing of the Seasons—
photosynthesis and 
chloroplasts and 
planetary tilt?
Irrelevant

a boy 
who'd rather write of Love
than consider its chemical makeup
or wonder how or why it is
who'd prefer to write of leaves
dancing spirals in the breeze 
than aerodynamics and 
air resistance and
gravitational pull

a boy 
who sometimes stops 
and only ponders Science
concerning his Genetics
and wonders where it all was lost.
I often joke about my inability in math and science and with regards to my brilliant grandfathers... And I do wonder to where the brains went. No matter. Maybe it's a recessive or silent gene and maybe I'll have genius kids. *Fingers crossed hopefully*
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