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Sep 2020 · 149
Lover’s
ummily Sep 2020
Skin cells
Under fingernails
To keep you with me
When I go.
Sep 2020 · 232
Dead Poets
ummily Sep 2020
On my pillow in broken English
And black ink.
A Fitzgerald quote dances in the breeze of the half-cracked window.
The clothes outside dangle
Hot and crisp from the City’s sun.

This city has its own sun
That beats down hard
Against the pavement.
Hearts beating hard
against the pavement
Of our souls and ribs.

If Fitzgerald was right
Then“they slipped briskly
into an intimacy
from which they never
recovered.”
Slipped                    and  


                 ­                                             fell.


Scars stain our hearts
And knees burn
Like the sun beats down
On the pavement
Of our memories.

But then again,
Perhaps it was Keats that had it right-

BOLD lover-
“Heard melodies are sweet
But those unheard are sweeter.”
Like you in my sweater.

Ode in a Spanish email
Plays on repeat,
Trapped in my head.
It’s that song that keeps be writing
About you
In this little book
Trapped in this little book
Like the etchings Keats admired
Trapped in the moment before
Their first kiss.
Forever trapped,
Lingering in their longing.

I’ll lick the wounds
From quickly turned pages
The sour blood of this longing
Tormented by time
“Heard melodies are sweet
But those unheard are sweeter”
Like a nagging child
Taunting-
Thumbs in ears,
Tongue out.

I wish my skin was sewn together
With the threads of that sweater
So you could wear me
Again
and
again.
Work in progress
Feb 2017 · 563
ex oh.
ummily Feb 2017
if it wasn't your soul...
or the flawless symmetry of your face,
or even that stainless yet smokey smile
then it was the statue that they built of you
in the city
and how even the birds knew your name.

between laughter-like sounds,
i can still hear them calling you.
you made your mark.
not on my heart
but                                                        ­                               on the other

side

                                            in an unexpected space

on my rib cage
a tiny "xo"
marks my skin forever


in black ink.
Sep 2016 · 785
The Science of Secrets
ummily Sep 2016
Secrets can be silent.
But most often they are whispered
Surrounded by cup-shaped palms
Transported from trembling mouth
To eager ears

Sometimes they are muttered
Throughout staggering sleep
Unbeknownst to the speaker,
Sounded out by partly incoherent coos
And deciphered by insomniacs

Sometimes they are slurred
by drunken tongues and spilled
Like a pint across the bar.
The glass shatters on the floor.
Left dangerously displayed
Until swept up and forgotten in the morning

Sometimes they are written
Soberly on a stark page
The ink courses through your veins
The pen carves the way


And you’re here.
Jul 2016 · 401
Ranting & Raving
ummily Jul 2016
There is always truth in deceit.

A truth that could be realized no other way.
A truth that tried

time
and
time
again to rear its head

Truth lies  (tries)

in deceit.

TRUTH LIES IN DECEIT.
Don’t you get it?

Look to your deceits and find


your *Truth.
Ranting & Raving
Jul 2016 · 340
The Other Woman
ummily Jul 2016
As he slept beside me,
Sharing a bed that was not ours
I traced my fingers across his frame
Gently brushing the skin
Covering the bones
That held him together
So I could remember
How we used to lay
That way.
Apr 2016 · 430
Wayward Girls
ummily Apr 2016
We didn’t make a move for at least
fifteen minutes
an hour
a lifetime.
Except for the blood in our veins.
The blood in our veins moved fiercely
throughout our bodies
Like each heartbeat could be the last beat.
Like we could die in our sleep tonight
If we could only sleep tonight.

Our hearts thumping
Our bodies throbbing
Waves and waves of magnetic energy
Surging through us
Into the springs of the mattress
beneath us.
Deep into the wells of our longing
Connecting me to her.
Me beneath her

Our breathing slowed
Then deepened.
She made the first leap.
A leap?
An inch
A micro-movement.

Suddenly
She twisted
in such a way that her hand gently landed
next to mine.
Finally,
Her skin on mine.

I can see the colours now
Of the electricity rushing through our bodies
Swelling
And filling the room.
The mattress could have lifted off the cool ground that night
And taken flight
Soaring through the roof
Erupting through the ozone layer
And flooding the night sky.
ummily Apr 2016
La Ratita Presumida
“... y sentia muy feliz. Pero al terminar, el gato se lanzo sobre ella para comer se la. La Ratita lorgo escaper y aprendio a no fiarse de la aparencias”

Generally speaking, the most romantic matters take place beneath the moonlight. It shone down on the city of Barcelona that night with a certain intention, a mysterious plan. She went out for a cigarette, or a “thought” as she liked to think of it, her soul already marinating in a bottle of cheap, red wine.  She let the moonlight pour its possibilities upon her skin as she exhaled into the night.

It was this recipe:
¾ bottle of red wine,
1 pack of Marlboro Lights,
a pinch of red lipstick and
a dash of moony-mist  

on the dimly lit terrace that started it all.

Just then, a tall, blondish, smart looking guy walked into the room. She felt as though she could see the weight of his brain sitting in his head. Almost visible were the synapses firing within.

He spoke so smoothly, in a comforting, southern accent.
His words cast visions of sunsets,
surrounding her
in an unfamiliar, yet soothing
warmth.
She drew closer.
His southern spark lit her cigarette and
with that flick of the match,
an immediate magic ignited between them.

They spoke of Matthew Macconaughy, death and anxiety... death by anxiety, art and music and love and lust.

lovelustlovelustlovelustlostlove

“Just come with me,” he said,  “I’m not expecting anything... we’ll get brunch!” , he said. Ooooooh that’s a mighty word there, “BRUNCH”.

“Brunch”,
A word capable of bringing this girl,
to her knees
~the birds and the bees~
she left with him.
                                                              ..­.

“You had me at ‘brunch’.”
They took a cab to his shoebox-sized flat in Gracia, “the best neighbourhood of Barcelona by far”. They linked lips, caressed, clutched each other’s flesh and faded into one as the sun began to rise.
                                                           ­   ...
The sun came beating through the dungeon –like windows of the shoebox-shaped room. The laundry hanging outside-as it must in this city- cast shadows across their naked skin. It appeared to be dancing quite joyfully, despite the intensely hung-over state of the two strangers that lay entangled amongst the sheets.
As promised, BRUNCH ensued.  They chatted, and laughed and flirted. They shared secrets that no one else knew.

“I like your brain”, he said.
                                                               ...
In the weeks to come they spent every waking moment of each weekend in each other’s company. The rest of the time was spent as the charismatic protagonist in the day dreams of the other one’s mind.  

Hospital General, Sant Cugat Del Valles, Valldoreix, La Floresta, Las Planes, Baixador de Vallvidrera, Peu del Funicular, Reina Elisenda, Sarria, Les Tres Torres,  La Bonanova, Muntaner, Sant Gervasi, Gracia, Provenca,  Passeig de Gracia, Placa Catalunya.

The Trains chugged on
And on
And just remember it’s hard to stop a train...

Gracia -the best neighbourhood in Barcelona- sang like a bird in her ear and a sore thumb pressing its weight into her aching heart.  

Take me Spanish Caravan, yes I know you can...
...I know where treasure is waiting for me
Silver and gold in the mountains in Spain
I have to see you again and again.

Take me Spanish Caravan, yes I know you can.

                                                           ­        ...
That dreaded, dreary morning, the rain beat down. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plane -Or all over, really.

She helped him stuff his damp laundry
into his star-spangled suitcase,
himself into her...




He came,
she left, and so did he.




*I'd like to see you again
and again.
a short story.

a ghost story.
Apr 2016 · 1.1k
Alone Together
ummily Apr 2016
I collect bones
the kind that reside in attics and closets,
gathering dust.
The kind that are only ever spoken of
between pages like these,
addressed to no one in particular
but everyone at once.
That "Dear Diary",
who are you?
and why are you following me?
Perhaps were just really lonely.
After all,
we live as we dream,
alone together.

— The End —