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claire-eliza-1Poems
He and I are the same: umbrellas on sunny days, nothing in the rain and shivering, slightly, in the warmth of sunny rooms. His gentle face watches me walk through the door and he paces the floor looking for a rhyme that will hold me, neat like the sonnet he’s folding                     my quiet dear, who walked in shadowed rooms                     forever, noticed slightly dimming lights                     and slighter changes in the weather, afternoons                     with showers, clear and starry nights.                     she smelled like air and puddles on the street                     The rosy blush of clouds after a storm--                     the pinkish blush of clouds after a storm--                     the white and empty sky after a storm-- He admits defeat, and again we are the same, afraid to speak each other’s names, waiting for rhymes that would’t come, or never came. But we could slink back into the mountainsides, coastlines, deep tree recessions and rain-filled nights, you and I.  Be brave and build a home, a bed and a desk, fill up our books with poems about the weather, the curves of our necks, lay our words in the soil of the cold, careful northwest.
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Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
Untitled in Rhyme
He and I are the same: umbrellas on sunny days, nothing in the rain and shivering, slightly, in the warmth of sunny rooms. His gentle face watches me walk through the door and he paces the floor looking for a rhyme that will hold me, neat like the sonnet he’s folding                     my quiet dear, who walked in shadowed rooms                     forever, noticed slightly dimming lights                     and slighter changes in the weather, afternoons                     with showers, clear and starry nights.                     she smelled like air and puddles on the street                     The rosy blush of clouds after a storm--                     the pinkish blush of clouds after a storm--                     the white and empty sky after a storm-- He admits defeat, and again we are the same, afraid to speak each other’s names, waiting for rhymes that would’t come, or never came. But we could slink back into the mountainsides, coastlines, deep tree recessions and rain-filled nights, you and I.  Be brave and build a home, a bed and a desk, fill up our books with poems about the weather, the curves of our necks, lay our words in the soil of the cold, careful northwest.
claire-eliza-1
Written by
claire-eliza-1
29/American
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
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