#narratives - Hello Poetry

i was rehashing narratives narrowly understand what this is a love story i couldn’t predict stuck in the throes of your lips i couldn’t, i shouldn’t, i can’t forget this trace my wounds and kiss seek me soon or miss me for an eternity cutting off burdens hurting me i slice, snip, and chop i watch it float like a log to clear the way the way it should’ve been along

0

Feb 4

Feb 4, 2026 at 8:49 AM UTC

munybee

Cutting

i was rehashing narratives narrowly understand what this is a love story i couldn’t predict stuck in the throes of your lips i couldn’t, i shouldn’t, i can’t forget this trace my wounds and kiss seek me soon or miss me for an eternity cutting off burdens hurting me i slice, snip, and chop i watch it float like a log to clear the way the way it should’ve been along

12

Some years ago, on a Monday, I met Joyce at Whitlows. I bonded with her over bourbon and cokes. She wore a black dress; sloping V, open back It clung to her thigh, as though her skin Was coated in sweets: sugar, honey, syrup. Her face shined under the light overhead: Denim eyes, velvet lips, an upturned nose. She went to G.W.; read Junot; rode thoroughbreds; Spoke Arabic; ate okra; watched Kubrick. At the foosball table, I touched her wrist. She touched my arm. The next day, after coitus and coffee, I went to my car and found a ticket.

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Apr 29, 2016

Apr 29, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC

dannyartreads

FML

Some years ago, on a Monday, I met Joyce at Whitlows. I bonded with her over bourbon and cokes. She wore a black dress; sloping V, open back It clung to her thigh, as though her skin Was coated in sweets: sugar, honey, syrup. Her face shined under the light overhead: Denim eyes, velvet lips, an upturned nose. She went to G.W.; read Junot; rode thoroughbreds; Spoke Arabic; ate okra; watched Kubrick. At the foosball table, I touched her wrist. She touched my arm. The next day, after coitus and coffee, I went to my car and found a ticket.

12

Sinking in bed, Can’t quite find the floor And my right foot’s Still covered sheet, With lonely, “lefty,” Somewhere south a star. I’d swallowed my tooth, Earlier, an added topping, And down went the slice – To ever remember the, “CRUNCH!” of pepperoni, so Reminded, a right hook’s sting. And she’d left the ice bucket Atop counter, The tenth time this week, But I’d only smelled her, “note,” The last I guessed And the last it ever’d be.

0

Jun 15, 2015

Jun 15, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC

liam-c-calhoun

If knuckles had narratives

Sinking in bed, Can’t quite find the floor And my right foot’s Still covered sheet, With lonely, “lefty,” Somewhere south a star. I’d swallowed my tooth, Earlier, an added topping, And down went the slice – To ever remember the, “CRUNCH!” of pepperoni, so Reminded, a right hook’s sting. And she’d left the ice bucket Atop counter, The tenth time this week, But I’d only smelled her, “note,” The last I guessed And the last it ever’d be.

18