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mira Oct 2021

i think there is no such thing as an overstayed welcome. if i over-stay, i'm not welcome; if i'm welcome, i'm just staying. don't we all crave someone who wants us to linger in the doorway, wants us to have another cup of tea?
mira Oct 2021
I want you underneath and
I want you, underneath.
you don't stand at the gates of
me
flying a white flag;
you are the minotaur inside,
unraveling my maze and
making it into silk sashes
that I can tie in my hair.
mira Oct 2021
you are (nothing if) not a fool
I didn't win you working wet-necked tricks that I
invented for boys -
     un-sacred boys

I bore you my soul in a jar -
             soaking in jasmine tea,
                                    no perfume,
                                                     disintegrating in thick devotion

you set it in the sun
and told me it deserved more than that.
mira Oct 2021
after all these years
will you ask for
my hand,
or just take it?

melting fingerprints into my palm

what sehnsucht will remain when
we are dust?

if I marry you
in the church,
can I be your angel forever?
mira Oct 2021
time is pouring out - it's all over the sidewalk,
it's making me old

i'm too old now, but too young to do anything about it:

too cowardly to abandon things that tip the pitcher
too poor to refill it myself.
mira Aug 2021
there is love brewed into the calluses of my coffee;
a hard-bodied steadfastness with the diligence to build me a humble home,
a playful sensuousness that can laugh after it ***** me but

in my tea i find the missing tenderness, a delicate jasmine translucency that remembers the curve of my lips around the cup
perhaps i find a mirror, in which i might discover a work of art
swaths of oil paint that earnestly create a woman, asking by their very existence to be forgiven for their impiety because she cannot be captured on a canvas

i want to love you in this way, the way women are loved;
i want to lift your jaw in my palm and kiss you gently,
to write aching letters to you,
to hold your head to my chest and finger your flaxen hair,
to rest my mouth on the nape of your neck and tell you about the home i’ll make for you

when we get out of here.
mira Jul 2021
i’ll always find my way back here, to the shore;
the moon is out this time,
and i stare at the patch of sand between us and ache to touch you again

dreading the countable infinity that separates me from you

in five years maybe i’ll be a fossil,
coal crushed in the soil,
but still i’ll wait for you -
maybe you can put me on your desk.
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