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 Dec 2013 Tim Knight
Its almost silent
Laboured breathing
And yet
From only minutes ago
Our mouths, bodies
Were a ripple of sound and motion.

We were so loud, so very perfect

Meant to be.
 Nov 2013 Tim Knight
All the days are graying and I'm fraying like the sweater my grandfather gave me.

It still smells of cigars and old west, I'm ever quested and pressed with emotion.

I've become a faded flower fated to the pages of an old almanac in the back of the library.

Scents of worn novellas standing solitary on shelves and fragrant wisps of wisteria.

Alone to settle and mettle with dust and dialogues full of empty follies and triumphs.
Amara Pendergraft 2013
She has thin lips that rarely touch—painted Merlot

and sheltering teeth—those perfectly aligned, white-spined novellas.

And when she speaks, her satin tongue presses out sweet breath

that hangs on your head like a daisy halo.
August still catches in my head like that Manhattan melody
        when he was my little vial of Novocaine.
        when the moon showed her face and we slept on my floor
and our knees and hips and
shoulders—all the hinges of our bodies—washed with
a twilight of mauve and Bordeaux.
And one night he painted me with
two rows of clenched teeth—dipping in and out of white pools of Selene.
I have a bed now that he has left
        with sheets that billow on the right side,
        with real blankets that aren't hospital blankets.
And he is my little vial of Novocaine
that took a train to states away. And the miles
between have left me with a weight in my chest that I'm sure fell from
his suitcase. I've got
        bones made of buildings,
        and a metropolitan heart,
        and a steady smile
knowing this same moon hangs over him and that borough.
 Aug 2013 Tim Knight
lilah raethe
**** me
to the slow
of your heartbeat

as you tug me
from reality
and into the trap
of open arms
on sweet

Cloud 9

as you gently
unfold me,
The rain
A wink,
In a church, from a man serving me the blood of Christ,
My stomach turns, remembering the discomfort.
A wink,
On the street, from a man of a different generation,
It was the first time I felt like a woman.
A wink,
On a picnic blanket, from a man I would soon fall deeply for,
I wince; I’m still piecing the shards of my heart into a recognizable mass.
A wink,
In a hospital room, from a man who held me as a babe,
This memory is more precious than any jewel the earth could offer.
A wink,
At any time in any place can mean nothing and everything
Depending on how it’s remembered.
 Jul 2013 Tim Knight
I've finally found someone who knows every inch of my life, and I don't even know her.
Our lives are somehow connected and we share similar stories.
I wish my friends knew just how much I write...but this "someone" does.
Together, we seperately write of similar tales revealing heartache, self-harms of sorts, loneliness.
I'm glad I met her.
Someone like me.
I'm no longer alone.
She is my inspiration.
 Apr 2013 Tim Knight
Jett Bleue
We’re gathered here today to put to rest the words I didn’t mean to say.
The thoughts I tried my best to suppress, but slipped out anyway.
Delivering meanings that I didn’t have planned,
And messages she just can’t understand.

My acid tongue throws out its poisonous whispers into her ear, containing words she was never meant to hear.
But she cancels them out with her alkaline replies that don’t align with mine.
She’s the one who starts this game every time.
Throwing in the truths that bring me shame,
But when I claw out her flaws from beneath the dirt out onto the surface,
They impregnate her hazel eyes with rain.
And I’m always the one to get the blame.

I check the weather where she is to know if she can see the dark clouds leaving,
Unveiling the blue skies that lie beneath.
Hoping that one day she will open her hazel eyes and realise we’ve been through wet and dry seasons that continue to replay like groundhog day.
But all we can do is keep believing that there is a reason why we can’t let the storms blow it all away,
Just because of the words I didn’t mean to say.
 Apr 2013 Tim Knight
I haven't kissed anyone in so long.
I might just evaporate from the sheer

Standing on tiptoes, touching noses
Palms pressing hard against palms as they

I'm falling into tiny fragmented pieces
And you are picking at the edges, playing with the

And then you vanish into thin air
My hands empty, once full of this

I crumple like paper to the floor
Little tree branch fingers twisted into

Tears so blue they flood the room
I'm washed away, waves reminding me of what I
© Amara Pendergraft 2013
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