#sapphiclove
I’ve found many things to be beautiful.
In fact, I can honestly find beauty in everything.
I found it in the sky, the way it can effortlessly change colors,
The earth, which became a refuge for all
Of us here to eat and drink from her body and soul.
The people I am surrounded by, my gorgeous friends,
For whom I need no filter or social battery.
And you.
Frankly, no other beauty has affected me like yours.
The countless times I’ve scrolled through each picture of you,
Analysing each detail.
You are the artwork that the greatest artists wish they could convey in their work
But cannot seem to capture the essence in a physical image.
I could devote my life to you,
I could study you for hours,
I could analyse you like the books I read
Highlight,
Annotate,
And bookmark my favorite page.
I could express my devotion in the bylines,
I could memorise you like the constellations above each and every night.
I could never get bored of your beauty;
It will forever captivate me.
It’s a phenomenon that should be studied.
2d ago
Jun 1, 2026 at 7:51 AM UTC
I name all of my lovers after months now
and all roads lead to August and
the Roman cities we’ve burned —
how she walked on crumbling streets as I held the matches —
this poem is a page for burning at its tip:
a lone match, scalding — a firelit kiss
but the flames have always been a hypnotic sight
like a woman perched in your sunlit bed —
her hair, red as flames licking my neck,
red as love that bleeds on itself;
it leaves a stain on pretty things.
Now her skin has silk sheets burning away
like banners in a Roman cathedral,
her half-breath kisses, dying — now embers,
tainting my dress black where her lips had staked a claim.
Now her touch is wildfire crawling on my skin
and I am a wounded doe — waiting. waiting.
waiting.
The only world I know burns to the ground
before my very eyes
and we are no phoenixes, darling; all we do is burn.
Aug 25, 2022
Aug 25, 2022 at 6:26 AM UTC
Here we are as unclaimed lights fall into the room. Here we are with better names, old letters peeling after the other. Here we are, now made of changing lights and indigo dreams. In the very last month and for the first time, I claim the body of an Egyptian lad and you are the sun god, washing over me like a brand new day. For the first time, December doesn’t feel like choking on poppy blossoms. For the first time, December is freeing as scattered pastel lights.
For the first time, my love, December rests on my skin — and it doesn’t hurt.
Dec 15, 2021
Dec 15, 2021 at 10:48 PM UTC
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.
Sep 5, 2021
Sep 5, 2021 at 1:28 AM UTC
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.
Aug 29, 2021
Aug 29, 2021 at 11:57 PM UTC
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. ❤️
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 10:50 AM UTC
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?"
Aug 3, 2021
Aug 3, 2021 at 4:54 AM UTC
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.
Jun 16, 2021
Jun 16, 2021 at 3:29 AM UTC
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.
May 15, 2021
May 15, 2021 at 2:06 AM UTC
maybe if you skin me alive, we’ll both know, finally, that this rotting chest is no place for you to leave love songs lying around. you see, my heart is both a soft and cruel place; each beat, a subtle atrocity to spilling outbreaths — a sheath for keeping your hunting knife. if you skin me alive, you’ll see the ghost towns after a new year’s eve. the slow dancing of grief before it screams its way out. the stab wounds, quiet and unhealing between cotton rows. the afterglow, graying at human touch.
if you skin me alive, you’ll see that there is no place for you here. you’ll see trembling. you’ll see staying still. you’ll see running away and never looking back. both wonder, and a conundrum — maybe more of one than the other.
these days, i am no longer sure if i am writing you love letters or writing you all my goodbyes.
maybe it’s more of one than the other —
maybe it always was.
Jan 14, 2021
Jan 14, 2021 at 12:04 AM UTC