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you know i wouldn’t search for a love like this
fading and longing
tiring and intensive

where could this love brings me to?

a love of sly
a love like flower die
you know i wouldn’t search for a love like this
 Aug 2013 Primrose Clare
Eliza
As a best friend,
I'd thought you'd understand.
That I'm not good with feelings,
and a lot of other things.

However you went ahead,
and surprised me instead.
You left me standing there,
made me thing you didn't care.

I am not the type,
to judge this tripe.
I'd like to think that this isn't real,
for I may not know how you feel.

There are signs everywhere,
which I happen to be completely aware.
You found someone new,
and left me feeling extremely blue.

I think I'm no longer,
your best friend forever.
And so in reply,
I'd like to wish you goodbye.

Goodbye, good friend,
I guess this is the end.
Our days are over,
it's time we get wiser.

*(n.d.)
Torn from the barrel
bullet shot from the gun.
High velocity
Impact.
Done.
I love him in the morning
When the sleep rolls off his skin
And is buried in wrinkled sheets
With last night's stale sweet nothings
And my scent

I love him in the morning
When he just barely cracks his eyes
And it's as if he's seeing me for the first time
I think when his alarm goes off
The whole world
Stands at attention
For John... of previous poetry fame
I want to whisper your name into my lungs.
Feel you sink into my nostalgia.
Because, It always comes down to "Where have you been all my life?"
My inner child screams, tears rushing down her innocents, that "It's not fair!"
My angst worn teen just rolls her eyes with her broken heart and Jane Austin hands.
My old woman hums "Love like there is no age."

Because it doesn't matter now, I can't see myself without you.
Ever...

And wedding dresses are all we have in common.
They hold so tightly that every moment stays interlaced in their very existence.
They will always have that one happy day.
One day that blends and binds they day after,
and the next,
and the next,
and the forever.

All tied with a white string.

Because red strings are too bold for your skin to bleed into.
So, I'll tie a white one around my wrist, so every time life looks down,
a wedding is all I see.
A wedding with you and me.
An alter with candles and flowers, on top of a hill.
We walk up like Jack and Jill.
But I have already tumbled after you, head over heals.

Love isn't a strong enough word.
Love is used by poets, authors, musicians.
No,
I live for you,
I live for you,
I live for you,
and I'll say it every time I breath your name into my lungs.
Written (2013)

I wrote this for my fiance for her birthday. I told her that I wanted to get a tattoo of a red string because of The Red String Theory. This is what came out of it.
 Aug 2013 Primrose Clare
Sarina
Your tongue used to sneak in my mouth
like the old days, girls climbing trees to sneak in an older boy's bedroom:
he had a single bed and plaid sheets she would think of
in the same way she thought of wrinkled bubblegum wrappers
but neither tried to taste good for the other. The
boy and the girl just were what they were, just hidden in each other.

My hands could be the bedposts, my hair the headboard,
my skin the blanket she will dig her fingers into, thinking what is home
what is home - somehow it has become a
tap on the window, a whispered I am here, hello.

You helped me to get over my fear of silence,
my chirophobia. When everything was meant to be quiet, when we have
nothing to say, you would pour honey down my throat
and hold hold hold me tight
so tight that it would seem everyone knew. I imagined turning on
the television, there would be an image of us lighting up Times Square:
you would calm the whole wide world. It took us years
to realize that we have the kind of love that is always, always okay.

The girl shimmies down the tree, an old oak
so tall she feels like she has dropped fifty stories before she finds grass,
she feels like she has lost fifty feet worth of body and flesh.

His window is open, her lips separate, it silent and
it is okay. She mouths, I miss you
then climbs up again almost desperately, completely dependent on her
legs to pump air into her lungs and breathe through the pores -
blackbirds see up vines up her skirt, and twigs
bruises like wide bushes and then his hands like a nest. What is home.

Your saliva grew like moss against my cheeks,
I once bit and bled in my sleep, had nightmares so I could hear something
but you gave my teeth a garden to pick vegetables from
and I stopped needing traffic to rock me
to bed: your tongue used to sneak in my mouth, now I have its words.
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