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nani Jan 2018
while we laid on the cold floor, you cradled

my head against your chest. i heard your pulse

swaying to the tempo of the ballad

playing on the radio. my hands throbbed like

the bumblebee trapped in the room, anxious

from the dissonance of our frequencies.

i watched it race around for attention

and understood: i want to be adored

or despised, never ignored the way you

didn't notice the bug or my buzzing heart.
nani Jan 2018
the lukewarm sun will waltz through cotton-made

and fading mountains. grey with rage and ache,

our dunes will jolt, with force they rattle quick.

the hills diffuse from time to time in crumbs

and grant our star permissions, parcels, moles

on skin to gleam upon and blaze across.
nani Jan 2018
the thought of you has ripened into an
intermittent apparition: the one
roaming inattentive minds in the form
of plastic reminders with no acute
edges – spellbound by nostalgic potions
dripping from a wandering mind when the
train takes longer than foreseen; leg bouncing
up, down, restless, a foul jack-in-the-box
spewing your worn out words, his cage shifting
from coffin to treasure chest with each stop.
nani Jan 2018
i found blushed flowers inside crevices.
petals of poignant hues mimicking dusk,
stained by footsteps on the alley we roamed.
cigarette butts, exuding their last gasps,
float in puddles from graveled clouds that weep.
quarreling with tides, they refuse to drown.
they won’t sink this may, like i did last spring,
in a pool of lilac forget-me-nots.
nani Jan 2018
dragging old shoes through the sun-kissed pavement,
dodging every fissure that scars its tar,
a wrinkled spirit urges to arise
from the bottom of a buried suitcase.

the wordsmith who spat smooth prose into ears
to calm the tidal waves marring dense chests,
abandoned the rib cage he resided
but won't stop pounding on doors for rescue.
nani Jul 2015
you dreamt of him last night.
you can't remember what he said
but his mouth whispered poetry
and his hands made a screenplay.

he wrote a note on a napkin
with a blue ballpoint pen,
you can't recall what it read
but such a phrase could start a novel.

you crumpled the paper towel in your hand with rage,
he ran back into your mind and lit a fire in your heart
causing your pulse to waltz and hum
to the song that played.

you dreamt of him once more
for words he said the last time you met his eyes.
you were drunk, of course
and a sentence can become a masterpiece in the blink of an eye.

draining half a bottle of cheap *****
merged with sour lemonade and stale diet coke
won't stop you from making similes between running your fingers through his hair
and the bubbling sensation of a fizzy drink.

i know you tried coffee and it made your hands tremble
with a wariness that obliged them to write,
and you compared caffeine to his touch
and the colour of coffee to the specks in his eyes.

i also know cigarettes didn't work,
their bitter taste reminds you of the arrogance in his expression
when he utters your name,
the despise contained in those two words until articulated by his face.
you don't need another drug that inspires metaphors longing to be made.  

his scent can't be replaced by twelve glasses of perfumed champagne
and even if caffeine makes your heart beat faster than he ever did
all you see in coffee grounds are his big brown eyes and his chocolate mane.
reeking of cigarettes won't do more than cloud your windpipe and put in mind the burn of your hands intertwined.

no substance will ever overshadow the drug a human being can come to be and no abstinence syndrome will be as dreadful as waking up from a dream.
nani Jul 2015
'estimate: 443.000 people die prematurely from tobacco abuse'
i read from the crumpled cardboard box which holds the rest of the deadly weapons i often oscillate with *****.

grey ashes flutter around,
smoke in the atmosphere fades into the fumes of cars,
my eyes water
is it because of fog or cries?

i take a deep, long drag;
my mouth utters an inaudible chuckle,
tears burn my cheeks, i mumble shrieks.

sadness overflows my surroundings,
everything turns blue,
rain floods my shoes.

wrenched in cold and shivering,
i wonder,
how many whom are stuck with the repulsive vice
deeply desire to die prematurely
because of some gloomy eyes.
try its helped my improve substantially and broken my writer's block.
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