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emma-arthursPoems
I think perhaps our first was not at the beginning. You crept down my throat and settled there. You tasted my words before I did myself, the acidity rooted strongly in liquid letters. I fell asleep with a river of thought pouring from my eyes and onto your skin without realizing what you were to take. Not me seriously, in any case. Our first was a whisky kick ***** in someone’s bath A screaming silence I, game player and you, changer. You had ringed your wrists in neon colours and anchored them to my lips. Bind my breath to your cells so that I will know what I look like, to you. You are in love with the idea of being in love, Dear someone. I have written countless poems. I have buried you in the open space Between every M and P So that every ‘oh’ sounds off, onomatopoeiaic. Our last was your realization as I came to terms with our first. The same. You are listening to music again. You are falling asleep again. You are silent, Again. I am counting my fingers to tell how many muscles I will exert to let you know. It is not that I confine to syllables but that they are confining me. It is not mystery I strive for. Dear someone, Our first was our only Our last, not so Dear someone, I do not love you— I am not sorry
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Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
Dear Someone,
I think perhaps our first was not at the beginning. You crept down my throat and settled there. You tasted my words before I did myself, the acidity rooted strongly in liquid letters. I fell asleep with a river of thought pouring from my eyes and onto your skin without realizing what you were to take. Not me seriously, in any case. Our first was a whisky kick ***** in someone’s bath A screaming silence I, game player and you, changer. You had ringed your wrists in neon colours and anchored them to my lips. Bind my breath to your cells so that I will know what I look like, to you. You are in love with the idea of being in love, Dear someone. I have written countless poems. I have buried you in the open space Between every M and P So that every ‘oh’ sounds off, onomatopoeiaic. Our last was your realization as I came to terms with our first. The same. You are listening to music again. You are falling asleep again. You are silent, Again. I am counting my fingers to tell how many muscles I will exert to let you know. It is not that I confine to syllables but that they are confining me. It is not mystery I strive for. Dear someone, Our first was our only Our last, not so Dear someone, I do not love you— I am not sorry
Written by
emma-arthurs
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
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