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lucie Mar 4
I refuse to admit I am constant,
like a mother’s love toward her child. There
are forests I have not seen, and will never.
For now, their leaves lay idle.

I am but wavering, unchained. In these
forests you will find me. I am large,
not in that I don’t fit your ex’s clothes but
that I contain mountains inside me.

I am black raspberries, red blackberries
and in time, the harvest will come. In
November dusk with songbird choir,
like a mother’s gentle hum.
lucie Feb 17
i.
he smells like summer tastes—
a bowl of fresh raspberries
left warm on the windowsill
orange peels on the floor
lucie Feb 16
5am
if i were a dewdrop
waiting patiently on your window,
i’d watch you alongside the others  
and race them to the bottom
to watch you sleeping peacefully
as i dream of you touching me
oh, so bittersweet
like a dove biting into a rotten apple,
bugs in a fresh watermelon
you’re dreaming but
i’m not sure i am
lucie Feb 15
soft melodies on the radio;
she’s got the rooftop down
brighton wind tangling her hair
fawn eyes wide with hunger

to see the way the sunlight kisses
the peach fuzz over her porcelain curves,
the thick brown lashes
over her tired-hooded-brooding lids

i will miss her small apartment,
the orange glow and that
lingering taste of cinnamon–
turmeric stains on her blouse

and i will follow her into the sea, knee deep
she will talk about the crash of the waves
too hard, too loud;
silent wind inside her insides

— The End —