I used to go digging for my bones
to plant an açaí in the plot.
I used to go fishing for my bones
in a sea of plastic waste.
I used to go hunting for my bones
to eat and eat and eat and eat.
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I suppose it's okay if every once in a while
you remember the good in the times far away
how once you laughed when she laughed
her silly laugh
and when you used to feel nervous
at the sound of her voice.
her voice might call butterflies into your heart
a honeycomb maze dripping thoughts like
maybe that's okay.
and if you ever wonder what it would be like now
to kiss her forehead
and be her little spoon
in the mornings after happy dreams
I supposed I can't blame you for the fantasies I don't know.
I've seen them too. Your hips between the space in her legs,
her hair polite under your chin,
fearing parenthood together.
I think to live your life with someone else
means to accepts that we'll never be one another's
and we won't be as close as the dreams we have of others,
like of myself and the forest and the rocks and the birds outside my window
and the *** I'd have outside in the invisible nowhere
and the wildflowers caressing and scratching my fat legs;
of the women I'd hold.
So I suppose I can't blame you for sometimes wishing for someone else
when the possibilities for our lives are so huge
and we only choose one another.
This has been my nightmare for years.
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is what lips
Find me @MickRWrites on Instagram <3
That little boy we both know, his nose dabbed
with whipped cream, smiling ice cream lips,
chin speckled with sprinkles like his freckles.
everything that feeling is, is you.
When we took the kids out for ice cream <3
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Writing music is the sweet pear dream
I plucked from a choir in springling years.
Back then I also dreamt of mermaid kisses
and reality television.
Why would a beast wish me music now?
A quick thing about how it is pursuing childhood dreams.
Under the still and open stars of a cousin's farm
too far to touch, I've dreamt of whiskers on catfish
since we last had tea.
The Waitomo Caves are strung by glowworms I
was too afraid to be touched by.
What if it touched my arm
and had me turn around?
If one had stuck my lip?
If I'd feel my face in blue glow light
just for a while?
I'd rest my head upon your arm
to take a memory for Facebook.
Your college crush would see herself
as phosphoric string that brushed your hair.
At night we'd drink a flower-blossomed tea
and meet again, two cave fish in a dream.
Dreams I can't get over.
A dress for every me
I couldn't be with you
Wrote this one a very long time ago after a breakup.