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roanne-qPoems
This is not an accident. I used to call him a lazy criminal. Scooping hearts and spilling blood, leaving footprints, fingerprints. Stains. Eyes folding over -- the blindman or the beggar? Lips that blossomed into blueprints. Hands that rhymed with dreams, instead. The weeknights, dark and warm in a season of curled paper. No speaking -- guilt only follows past the second trip through the door. And then the mornings. More sun in him than the greenhouse where we watched dragonfly wings. A pattern about him like dragonfly wings. In those days we knew what it meant to point without wounding. We knew how to need someone without wanting, without loving.
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Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
lentement, doucement, discrètement
This is not an accident. I used to call him a lazy criminal. Scooping hearts and spilling blood, leaving footprints, fingerprints. Stains. Eyes folding over -- the blindman or the beggar? Lips that blossomed into blueprints. Hands that rhymed with dreams, instead. The weeknights, dark and warm in a season of curled paper. No speaking -- guilt only follows past the second trip through the door. And then the mornings. More sun in him than the greenhouse where we watched dragonfly wings. A pattern about him like dragonfly wings. In those days we knew what it meant to point without wounding. We knew how to need someone without wanting, without loving.
jul 2012
roanne-q
Written by
roanne-q
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 9:57 PM UTC
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