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You're standing in the rain
it's 4 am and the wine you drank
is still dancing in your blood,
the cigarette smoke still lingers in your hair,
and lipstick is smudged on your skin.

Where you are is unknown
the streets are thick with puddles
and all the people have wandered off to bed
but you didn't.

Because going home meant being alone
and you hate lying in a bed
with cold sheets
with  no one to hold.

You hate waking up without someones fingertips
tracing your lips
or combing your hair.

You hate standing in your kitchen
looking out your small ***** window
wondering where the person who was made to love you
disappeared to.

So you stay out
just to feel less lonely.
Even if the only company you have are a few scattered raindrops
and the faint glow of street lamps at 4 am.
 Nov 2013 Gwen Whitmoore
echo
..
     Friday's not a day.

                           Its a feeling.
                                                      .­.
yup.
:P
i can't look into your alabaster eyes
and not see that girl who soaked my soul in espresso and cigarettes
but whether or not she's really there-
well, other people would probably set me straight

but i sigh,
spinning myself around a plastic idea of you-
silken and careful

and i do not think we'll repair
what i know is much too shattered
but i'd like to hold the pieces of you
if not for one last time

maybe the last 4 months
have gone straight up your nose
and i know i can't cradle you anymore
but i'll exist in this love-struck fantasy  until it fades completely
and with it, i may very well go.
You broke bread and cracked voices.
Accompanied choruses of songs
you never bothered to learn.
Played God with radio dials and
sought salvation in airwaves,
leaving translation to the speakerbox.
Like a proper disciple-turned-prophet,
the static air took artistic liberties
and ****** up the message.

In all honesty, you wanted
so badly
to believe that this time, together,
you could out-live the reckoning.
That this time you were
something divine.
But tonight you're too sober to speak
and too tired to try.
Once again, you apologize.
She'll cradle your cheeks just so,
with such delicate touch
you're almost convinced it's done lovingly.
                    (You've been trained to speak
                                   between such parentheses.)
You always tell her exactly what she wants to hear
but never what she needs to know.
You both leapt from this bed, aiming for Space,
Hoping for something biblical,
but found, once again, that the sky
is nothing more than a mausoleum of stars.
                              And what
                                     goes
                                                            ­     up
                                                         Must
                                                come
       ­                       down.
From that funeral view
the truth collided into you
quicker than the avenue below.
Now you know what the moon must have felt
when the rockets came promising that
after this, things will never be the same,
then left just as quickly
with their pockets full of rocks.
You know what it's like when they steal part of you
just to put it on display.
It takes this distance
238,900 miles,
from here to the moon,
to leave your Me at ground level
and plummet into the
second person singular.

From depth like this
it's almost as if,
it never really happened to you at all.
he thought the border
was a line, between two spaces,  
two tongues
or
a no man’s land  
where imagined demons
slithered through the night  
or,
when dreaming,
a door, to another world,    
yet still a flatland

but he dreamed little  

and
when I told him
the border  
was the slit eye of a fish    
immersed in waves without words  
a place where sound
could be tasted  
and a scent seen  
as clearly as scarlet sky  
and light inhaled  
as a suckled symphony  
when I told him this
he asked what two worlds
this border defined  
as if my words
had been heard by his ears
rather than tasted
as the sweetest lies
maybe one has to have taken hallucinogenic drugs to get this mystical one
 Nov 2013 Gwen Whitmoore
Scott T
If you miss a beat
You create a new one
**** metre
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