we're two storms colliding;
and my lips lie here, in safety and stillness
where yours meet mine;
kisses rush like ether,
like saltwater filling the lungs
and yet, curiously,
right here in the eye.
maybe this is helen of troy crossing the aegean sea,
knowing all too well the risks.
maybe this is the start of the trojan war.
maybe this is a greek epic —
and dissolving in the shores.
and maybe i know all too well the risks.
but some time between
last night's first kiss and
the honesty and the silence of the early mornings
i have become the ocean before the storm
and you, the ocean after it.
and darling, would it be so bad to stay here for a while
in this fleeting safety in your arms,
in this fleeting safety of the calm?
I've barely slept
My hours are too short and too few
and I have better things to do
and watch my sunrise
come dancing tipsy through the door at 05:36
in all her morning splendour, sending smiling sunshafts in amongst the leaves of peacefully sleeping lilies
Laughter sparkling over the surface of a glass of water,
she settles snug and warm against my chest
Colouring now a hint of dusk and clouds
followed now by slightly furrowed rainy brows
Still her warmth seeps further in
and she holds me tight
flame flickers, and a deep breath
to tell me of the coming night
In monumental testament.
I grabbed a bottle and began to fill it with notes.
In times where reassurance was needed most I replaced the contains of the bottle with thoughts.
Unable to speak in a time where actions proved to speak louder.
Hesitant eyes that waited for reply. Drawing a blank where silence seemed ideal.
On one of the notes I drew a ship on the front and back of it. Sliding it in the middle of the bottle.
Shaking the bottle up and down, I watched it shift back and forth in wave after wave of loose strips of paper.
Rough torn edges, uneven chunks of paper.
Considering myself human for the most part. Taking a minute to walk across the shore.
Watching a ship sail it's maiden voyage.
Blue lines, the smell of paper.
The sound of waves crashing against the sides of the ship.
Sitting down along the side of the shore. Watching a ship caught in a storm of paper.
Reassuringly gathering my thoughts.
The ship drawn perfectly, setting sail across the depth of the bottle.
Leaned upright, splashing down on one note or another.
Following my first mind I sat the bottle on a stack of books.
I still wasn't ready to talk
— The End —