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fray narte Feb 6
i can never love you the way i claim — delicately and without violence. i remember hating flowers and broken seashells, and my grandmother, hand-sewing pastel dresses. deep down, my bones are raised on stories of ancient wars and biblical battles carried from memory to memory, a string of generational blunders — i am made of my father's bitterness and my mother's denial. so i will love you with corruptions and apologies, with bled-out  veins, giving in like an emptied river, with all the poems i have read and forgotten, and with everything that makes me finitely human.
fray narte Feb 6
i am sorry but my bones will always love you like hell, like it was war, like the world needs to end in the process, like the hand of god, taking you out of my ribs and now he needs to return it back where it rightfully belong. i will always love you, in godless sacrilege. i am sorry if i don’t know any other way.
fray narte Jan 7
to love all of you within the noiseless half of a sigh is a time-swept fever dream stirring in my fists — part firework smoke, part lavenders, part quiet, cautious limerence. how you enchant and unsettle me — i run high and aimless, and free fall in seconds. i am smitten. desperate. love-sick. wordless now, for all i care, darling — i'll leave all of my poems strewn in your bed, like a girl shedding her mortality before a goddess in her truest form.


to disrupt this is a human blunder. to bask in it, divine. ♡
fray narte Sep 2021
this cold sunrise will choke on all the dark, sunless ways that i am in love you. sweet one, let's watch the light as it falls apart and crawl, like ether on our golden skin. this is us sitting in the last of september's lights — this is us in the finitude of poetry, and i have never seen anything as beautiful.
fray narte Aug 2021
this love will sink its teeth on my throat and never let go, like a bite mark on the hollow of hyacinths. like closed fists on a burning letter. like serpentine sighs around my neck. in time, in vain, my poems will pay for this feeling but darling, i am intoxicated with the dark way that i am yours. i am high — high and reduced before your fevered kisses, and when all of this wears off, you'll find in place, in absolute constancy, in slate black eyes, that my love is yours — and yours alone.
fray narte Aug 2021
i spent too many times trying not to love you, darling, but i know this now: loving you has always been in my very nature — repressed and buried in my bone marrows.

i'm sorry it took me so long to realize this, my love. i am coming home now. ❤️
fray narte Aug 2021
your slow, burning kisses live off my trembling skin, for this alone, i will run out of poetry. i will fall at your feet, graceless, and at will. and i know this is madness. this is a disaster. this is the calm — all rolled into quiet, prosaic longings i can't begin to comprehend. this love, it scares me but not enough to run for my life. and i will have every bit of this moment committed to memory. i will bury it inside my ribs, away from the selfish hands of time. i will keep this love in a vial, hidden away beneath my tongue. always — this is my kind of always, my love, and some parts of me will never outgrow being yours.

this is the kind of madness i know. this is the kind of disaster. this is the kind of calm.

in the dark, i whisper, "tell me, love, does it scare you? does it scare you enough to run?"
fray narte Aug 2021
I want all kinds of love with you. The kind that leaves a holy mark on distant, ivory skin. The kind where daylight blurs your edges into something soft. The kind where a kiss is a chaos of storms. The kind with orange butterflies — the kind where they're consumed by flames. The kind that hurts and leaves you writhing — fragile, broken, and covered in wounds. The kind that screams under the rain. The kind that yields, like sunlight in February's palms. The kind that poets do not know about. The kind that leaves and finds it way back — the kind that always does. The kind that never leaves at all. The kind that's an almost. The kind that I'll pay for with my bones. The kind that haunts you after the years. The kind that holds on. The kind in wrinkles. The kind that lasts. The kind that stays. ❤

I want all kinds of love with you.
fray narte Jun 2021
i'll always love you like you were the fullest sunlight laid gently on the dark bruises of december. my crystalline hands are bound to start wildfires in your name. and finally when the world burns down, i'll mark your spine with these lips made of sunburnt flowers. in the ruins of it all, you still have all my misguided kisses — all my unbidden words. i'll always love you, until azaleas grow on the softest spots, in the mundane collision of our bodies. i'll always love you, until my ribs fall apart to your autumn eyes, like a babylonian temple that has seen the miracles of god. i'll always love you — in state of both madness and kalopsia. in the explosion and rebirth of the stars. i'll always love you — this is my bareness in the most prosaical state. this is my constant, darling — this is my truth.
fray narte May 2021
i think i've always known i've loved you — in smudged postscripts in the next page of a letter, in the secrecy of bated breaths, and lonely, sunset afterthoughts. i think i've always known i've loved you, and to be able to say this now without fear or cowardice or equivocation: i've loved you, in past and in present tense — it's magic. it's transcendent. it's freeing, and free-falling, and stepping into the warmest summerlight. it's us — in subversion of poetry, yet just as beautiful, my love — and just as poetic.

i think i've always known i've loved you — in smudged postscripts in the next page of a letter, in the secrecy of bated breaths, and lonely, sunset afterthoughts. i think i've always known i've loved you, and to be able to say this now without fear or cowardice or equivocation: i've loved you, in past and in present tense — it's magic. it's transcendent. it's freeing, and free-falling, and stepping into the warmest summerlight. it's us — in subversion of poetry, yet just as beautiful, my love — and just as poetic.

— The End —