girls in lithe dresses
still in photographs
they hurt like daggers—
being this young
hurts like a dagger, too as
their eyes divine something
in me,
or their hurtling way of being so
ineffably in place
and i, placeless,
skin flushed hot
like receiving a multitude of tongues,
this juvenility,
everything around me is lissomeness
just— tryingly closing my eyes
hoping to be awakened by the roaring
of blood in vein,
put to sleep by a lapidary brush
of hum: a delicate soft-petalled song
but i am a child
lost in a field
of various flowers.
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
girls in lithe dresses
still in photographs
they hurt like daggers—
being this young
hurts like a dagger, too as
their eyes divine something
in me,
or their hurtling way of being so
ineffably in place
and i, placeless,
skin flushed hot
like receiving a multitude of tongues,
this juvenility,
everything around me is lissomeness
just— tryingly closing my eyes
hoping to be awakened by the roaring
of blood in vein,
put to sleep by a lapidary brush
of hum: a delicate soft-petalled song
but i am a child
lost in a field
of various flowers.
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