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Lily Audra Jun 3
Come on now,
Look at the buttercups,
So yellow, so yellow!
There's no happier colour than yellow,
It dispenses joy like an ice cream man,
Mr Whippy, Mr Softie, Mr Buttercuppy.
I love the smell of your skin,
Not your perfume, your skin,
Your arms are the sky,
A galaxy map of freckles and I'm going to press my face against them all,
I'm going to burn my nose and then cover it in cream,
Scratch my legs with thorns and brambles  and then cover them in cream,
I'm going to sneeze so much, seeds swelling my eyes,
Jugs of cold squash and sticky fingers and verdant footpaths,
I'm going to cycle with my eyes shut and the sun on my face,
Is there a better word than butter?
Bread and butter and buttercups,
Come on now, look at the buttercups.
mhm May 30
Our love resembles that of the four seasons
Always changing, blossoming into new beginnings
Nostalgic and timeless like a summer breeze or the crisp fall air
Something so perfect and infinite
And I am lucky enough to share it with you
missanthrope May 20
normally
I love
the sum of
the sun,
the summer.
every bleak winter day
I wait for the sun
to kiss me
again.

but today
her kiss
is unbearable
torching my eyes
blazing past my eyelids
radiating right through my core
extinguishing me from within.

every bleak second of today
I waited for the sun
to go
away.

all I wanted
was
some more shuttered seconds
some more blissful blackout
some more ducky dreams.
solfang May 4
the clouds on my mind
are forming rain;
and it is leaking
through the drain
of my eyes,
after I said my goodbyes
to a summer of love,
and welcomed winter
from above
reposting a draft; I'm currently stuck in winter, but occasionally feeling its warm rays.
nora Apr 28
Time slipped away in the spring, in the muddy puddles and the rain, in the sweet-smelling flowers and the rain.
It rubbed circles into the small of my back,
whispered bittersweet apologies and tacked a sticky note to my corkboard.
“Remember to call.”
I forgot.

And I sit under the blooming tree
my bare feet soft against the grass

Time left me in the summer, in the sunny skies and the rain, in the sweltering heat and the rain.
It ran somewhere unknown, far, far, far away,
while I treaded chlorinated water and prayed that the fall would come sooner.
“You can call whenever.”
I didn’t.

And I sit beside the verdant tree
my bare feet ******* the pavement

Time was gone in the fall, in the whispered breeze and the rain, in the crinkling leaves and the rain.
But I had company in a glowing screen,
And as days turned to weeks turned to months I forgot about time altogether.
“Someone is calling.”
I hung up.

And I sit far from the dying tree
my bare feet resting on the couch

Time slept in the winter, in the miserable cold and the rain, in the blustery wind and the rain.
Numbers and names disavowed,
As “today” and “tomorrow” become “now” and “later”
“What is the word called?”
I don’t know.

And I cannot see the empty tree
my bare feet asleep on the carpet

Time has returned in the spring.
It looks me in the eyes,
profuse apologies pouring out from its lips.
“But you didn’t call.”
I blink. Didn’t I?
Simon Apr 21
Or not until the changes of seasonal events reach out towards that very flower with a creepily chill in mind. Something that gives it a chance to open up (when it least expects it).
Flowers are unseasonably unbounded towards their truest of fateful claims (when only the desires don't swelt your measure of control going overboard from right off the bat)!
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