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Brianna Bushee Jun 2018
My mother used to tell me I'd never find a husband.

Because I had **** hands.

My hands are still ****.

I smile every time I look at our
Interlocked hands.

Because his are **** too.
celestial Jul 2018
a cold day in march
we are interlocked
i should have held you longer

my head on your shoulder
we are intertwined
i should not have let you go
retrospective longing.
Greenie Jul 2018
I no longer believe you've left my head, I mean,

the idea of your fingers interlocked with my own

echoes at me in the most unproductive ways.
Kewayne Wadley May 2018
Your not just beautiful.
I see you every time I look up.
The star that shines it's brightest.
Filling my life.
The moon lit like a dream.
And forever I stare.
Listening to the silence.
Awaken by a soft light I know it's you.
I can feel your touch hovering about.
Counting the steps until our arms leave our side.
The possibility of traveling from one sphere to the next.
Our eyes but dots in wait.
The question of rockets and big bangs.
The essence of time interlocked between our fingers.
With no room left to breathe, our rocket becomes continuous.
With you, a compilation of light.
Is there any question to why my arms stretch as far as they do.
I gravitate to you, the most beautiful chaos I've ever seen.
To be the space you fill in infinite devotion.
Your not just beautiful, your astonishingly out of this world.
Our arms no longer by our side. the rocket pierces the stratosphere.
We explode internally
Lyn-Purcell Aug 2018
╰⊰✿´ℒ♡ⓥℯ '✿⊱╮
The          leading          *****-hand        patisserie
n­ow  walks  to  the  sink, warm  water wets
their    hands.   After  pouring  soap,  he
rubs   the   front,  back,  interlocked
fingers, then  thumbs, entwined
fingers         and         lastly
the       nails      before
the    full    rinse;
hands now
Ok, I'm got something a little different in store!
This form of poetry is called an 'Etheree', a poem that consists of 10 lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 syllables. An Etheree can also be reversed (which is what I did here)  and written 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
Today, my mom treated me and my sister to some cakes in a lovely Bistro not far from us. I'm a lover of lemon cakes but they didn't have any - only lemon meringue tarts which I agreed to try with some Jasmine Tea ;)
Man, they were both delicious! And the music took me to a small cafe in Paris! This is the beginning! The next part will be out tomorrow, hopefully!
Have a good night!
Lyn ***
Bryan Lunsford Aug 2018
It is within an unusually warm and early spring night,
Here, where I begin to feel something ever so unusual while looking deeply into this goddess' eyes,

With her eyes like a pair of diamonds sparkling in the sky,
It's at this moment–in this part of the night–
Love simply didn't need a reply,

With candles lit,
As it's surely to her delight,
And with rose petals all over the bed–
That, surely, was to her surprise,

Though, right now,
Can you really blame me for having this nervous butterfly-feeling whirling around inside?

For this will be the first-ever night that I'll get to hold this beauty tight,

And for such a divine beauty,
Surely I'd make any sacrifice to make sure her every whim and need is perfectly sufficed,

Yes, with our feelings for each other that couldn't be more pure or refined,
I already know, without hesitance, our love would satisfy any god's most delicate appetite inside,

And although, this world may never know how I truly feel inside,
I, myself, know with certainty that I love this woman more than anything I've ever loved in my whole life,

Yet, with nothing more than the sound of crickets chirping within the night,
I proceed to lay this beauty down–
Here, pulling her close to my side (where I tell her)
"I love you, angel, good night",

And even though, our love never did need a reply,
She said
"I love you too, sweet dreams baby, don't forget to hold me ever so tight",

And thus with this crazy, whirling, butterfly-feeling, again, that I begin to feel take over inside,
She rolls over unexpectedly and surprises me with a kiss to seal any other reply–
To only roll back over and close her eyes,

Oh, and in the midst of her every action–every move leaving me mesmerized,
She decides to move an inch closer to me,
(Where I wrap my arm around her thighs)
As it's also nearly simultaneously that I hear the clock's stride finally hit midnight,

With a chime that struck once–
Then struck twice,
I begin to hear a set of chimes strike–and strike until they chime twelve times,  
(As these chimes come from this evilly wicked, horrid and heinous clock of mine)

Yes!–with this clock being a clock that through time I have come to slowly hate and despise!

Though, this tower of a clock reminds me of its presence with not the tics nor the tocs–
No, only when the minute hand climbs and the hour's hand meets another notch,

As only then, within that second of the minute, does my mind's thoughts get crossed and rocked–
With my thoughts that become locked within a box
(As it'll be for the next sixty minutes)
I'll just lie there and remain distraught,

Oh, and you ask why?–
Simply because of this chiming noise that won't stop!

With these reoccurring chimes that take my sleep and make most nights a loss–
I can assure you that if I don't go to bed by one or two o'clock,
Any sleep for me will become more and more implausible by every tic of the clock,

Yes, nearly impossible–
For it'll be with the next four or five hours, I'll just lie there, roll, and toss,

Though this is a different night!–
As I'm reminded with our legs crossed and with our fingers interlocked,

Yet, here as I begin to feel the warmth of her body block and fend off any kind or sorts of lingering winter's frost,
I also sense that numerous candles are still glowing bright,
(With the sight of their ambient light flickering off of the bedside's wall from abroad)

And, within this room filled with sentiment as I hear not a sound at all,
I smell the candle's aromatic scents,
With the atmosphere within the air being ever so calm,

Until that is, I hear another chime of a ****–
With it sounding like a melody that's gone ever so wrong–
It's with this tower of a clock, right here, that has just let me know it's now the hour of one o'clock–
And one o'clock, right on the dot,

With only one lone chime that I heard–as everything then simply paused and stopped,

Though, within my mind and with these thoughts that refuse to stop,
I reassure myself–
Knowing that the time is only one o'clock,

For I know I still have an aplenty of time to close my eyes and make these endless lines of thoughts stop,

So to this brilliant mind of mine,
You know that it's clearly time to let these thoughts wander off,

Just close your eyes and let your mind stop–

Though, didn't I just say enough with your thoughts?

Oh, and I can see you might think a lot,
But clearly and obviously you're not thinking about squat!

So just stop or I swear to god,
If you don't stop with these god awful thoughts,
I'll have no other option than to smash and squash your head against these bricks outside of this wall and then leave you there to rot–

For if you don't stop this exact instant then I am almost certain your beautiful woman will become a loss,

And I'm sure you don't want that to happen again, now do you?

So just stop with these thoughts–
Quit fooling around and whatever you do–
Oh, and whatever you do,
Don't let this beauty see that crazed loony side inside of you,

Just fall asleep now and you both can wake up tomorrow around noon,

Yes, just close your eyes and count these sheep jumping over the moon,
And count them jumping one by one–then two by two,

Yet, between one and two,
Surely I knew I was bound to come unglued,
(With the loony that came right out of me as I hear a tune)

With a chime that struck once and then twice,
It left my mind to know not what to do,

Though, that doesn't mean I am confused,
With the duo of chimes that struck–
Only letting me know it's now into the minutes of the night that come directly after two,

And though,
As I begin feeling as if a disaster was nearing in soon,
Still, I knew not what to do–

Because I know nothing as I'm thinking of nothing and just fading away within the scents of her perfume,

(Where I begin fading away within this serenity and hearing not a tune)
I feel the weight of my eyelids begin to feel like a caving-in roof weighing at least a ton or two,

And with just one of a few wondrous thoughts still wandering on through,
I wonder
"Could this be sleep that is nearing in soon?”,

With this feeling of a wonderful tranquil sensation subduing and leaving my whole body consumed,
(As I'm weary and with clearly not a thought left in this room)
I take one last deep breath
(With my lungs swelling like a balloon)

And within a dream is where I have just entered into–:

Yes!–As I'm awakened and with the insanity within in me being let loose to roam throughout this room,
My mind, then, begins to shift back and forth (like something caught drifting between a typhoon and a monsoon)

Where realizing as I view that I've opened my eyes too soon–
With it being this beauty here of mine that is the one who is creating this horrendous little tune,

And feeling, as I hear–
With every single breath that she breathes rattling the room–the walls–and even the shingles upon the roof,
I feel my mind, here, completely coming all the way unglued–
For all I want to do is make everything within this room mute!

Yes, that's all I want to do!–

For I’m sure I wouldn't even be in such a foul mood if I wasn’t sleep deprived,
And if this beauty here of mine and her snoring roar weren’t the main culprits of keeping me, my mind, and this night alive,

Though, hearing with her roaring of a snore that is beginning to drive me crazy inside–
Yes, as she snores, there!–just an inch or two away from my side–
I hear with her snore only growing more and more–

As I, then, within this second, try to ignore a chord of chimes striking once, and then striking twice,
(With this clock striking three times to remind me once again of the time)

–With this night now being at least 3:03, 3:04, and could possibly even be 3:05,
I know this night is at the most three or four hours away from seeing the sun shine bright through my window blinds,

Oh, and surely I already know I probably would just close my eyes–
Yes, that's probably what I would do!
But this little beauty here of mine is worse than any set of chimes,

And surely indecisive,
(As I move the pillow over my ears while I'm consumed by an irritating form of fright)
I move my body a little to the left and then a few inches to the right,
Where I hear her demon's rumbling from inside,
And screaming as if they're trying to come out and fight–

(Which is where I begin thinking)
“Is waking her up really that much of a crime?”

For if she knew she was snoring at such a high decibel level,
Then I'm sure she wouldn't even mind,

And thus with my decisions that couldn't agree more with my mind,
I decide to slightly lift her head and wiggle her,
(As I nearly tickle her left side)

Whispering to her as I say,
"Baby, wake up, I just had the worst dream of my life!
Oh, baby, wake up, I just need to see those sweet little angel eyes!",

Though motionless–
There, as I try to keep my insane and crazy side inside,
My whisper begins to intensify to a scream
(As she refuses to open her eyes or give me a reply)

I continued to scream–SCREAMED!

"Oh, why, oh, why won't you open your eyes!",

And with her snore being the only reply that she could give me,
It literally drove me crazy inside–
Thus driving me as it drove me to climb on top of her body,
(Where I grab her nose and squeeze)

As it's within the silence and in this exact instant,
Instantly and unbelievably, I see I've hit a stride that I couldn't believe,

Yes, mesmerized!
And content beyond belief–
With her snoring, here, that has finally ceased–

–Casually, I proceed to climb off of her body
(Wherein realization I finally can go back to sleep)

And in the silence, again, as I hear not a peep,
I roll over, close my eyes, and before I could even count one jumping sheep,
I hear a roar once more coming from this treacherous little beast,

And surely with not a second more could I go without sleep,
(As this pillow, right here, has just become my best friend, and the most plausible way to get any sleep)
I decide to move this pillow over her face–with my exertion at first lacking any tenacity,

But what I'd end up hearing would be like a growl or a roar of a wicked beast,

With this sinister snore of hers only increasing more and more with every tic of my heart's beat,
I begin to feel my thoughts shift toward the sentiment of either insane or crazy,

(As my hands push with more and more of an intensity)
I begin sweating–feeling the smothering warmth of her body's heat,

Though, simultaneously as I hear her heart throb and knock an unstoppable and irregular beat,
I begin putting even more weight upon this pillowcase
(With a galore of my sweat dripping upon these sheets)

And surely I have to know,
(For it should be as obvious as could be)
That if I put any more weight upon this pillowcase,
I'd likely break through the toughest of the most unbreakable concretes,

And thus coming to the realization–
With this crazy side of me that has taken over and been unleashed surely not being me,

It's here, against the greatest of restraints
(As I'm barely able to climb off of her body)
I climb off and begin waiting within the silence–

Waiting and hearing not a peep,
Where seemingly prompting myself to say,
Here, as I speak!
"Good night baby–sweet dreams",

Though, I'd hear not a reply–
As a reply was something our love never did need,

Yet, as I roll over to climb under these sheets and close my eyes
(Where simultaneously it all has seemed)
I have fallen fast asleep within a dream while holding my sleeping beauty tight–

Holding her as I squeeze–
Holding her!–
With her heart that holds not a beat–.
syd Nov 2015
I find my mind wandering towards the thought of you.
I can't stop it, i don't want to.
I remember how our bodies interlocked in your bed,
blue eyes and messy heads.
I can feel your hand sliding over my hips,
nothing feels more right than this.
In these small moments, you've taken a hold of me.

Inhaling slowly now, your exhales glancing over my neck.
Whisper into my ear, tell me what's next.
You press your lips hard against mine,
unwinding the time we've been apart
you have me unfolding in your hands,
effortlessly ******* my body and heart.

I'll want you like this forever.
god you look so ******* beautiful in my head
MKF Feb 19
Lights off.
Hands fumble for hearts
Missing, slightly, every time.
Never quite hitting targets.
Bodies intertwined,
But not interlocked.
Lips slipping,
Landing on cheeks
And noses instead.
Eyes scan,
But never meet.
Not achieving.
Lizzy Mar 2016
The Dancers in Black

Her dress was black and the shape resembled a flower. Satin off-the-shoulder sleeves sat elegantly against her ivory white skin. A plain black bodice and a plain black skirt, not too puffy but not form fitting. It was a simple dress, but she stood out from all the lavishly decorated girls that attended the ball. Her pale skin made her black dress look like a painting on a pure white canvas. A few black curls fell from her crown-like updo and brushed against her neck; giving her beauty an effortless essence.
Soon after she entered the grand doors, a man approached her. He was older, but not too old. Maybe ten years her senior.
“You are breathtaking, it would be an honor to dance with such a beauty.”
A small grin curled her lips as she took the hand he extended to her. They danced wonderfully in the ballroom. They swayed together like a tree in the wind, his branches twisting with hers. Her black dress melted with his black coat and trousers and they became one beautiful black bird, floating and gliding freely.
The rest of the guests froze, watching the couple in a trance. The room fell silent, even the musicians were hypnotized by the dancers’ grace. The couple continued to dance through the silence, seemingly unaware of their surroundings. Their gaze was locked, transcending reality as they stared into each other’s eyes. They were somewhere else, transported by their dance. An unfamiliar world was created between their eyes that grew and spread like a halo around their interlocked frames.
The guests were not amazed, not horrified, they were not anything. The feeling of Nothing swept over them like a dusting of light snow. Nothing seeped into their hearts the longer they watched the dancers. This Nothingness would be with them until the end of time.
The King entered the ballroom confused the the silence and the stillness.
“What are you doing? I don’t pay you so my guests can stand around in boredom.”
The musicians resumed playing and the guests went back to dancing. Men looked for the beauty in the black dress and women searched for the man in the black coat. They seemed to have disappeared. No woman or man in black could be found.
The guests danced and carried on their night like they would any other. But they could not forget the dancers and the Nothingness that was left in their hearts.
As the night came to an end, and the guests began to leave, the image of the dancers in black haunted their minds. They left through the grand doors like sand falls through an hourglass, consistent and calm until the room was empty. No one spoke of the event, but there was a sense of understanding among the guests. They all saw the event, they all felt the Nothingness that remained, and they all agreed it was best not to dwell on the matter.
They would think about the dancers in black every day. Every man and woman, and lord and peasant who saw the dancers would carry on life with Nothingness inside them and the curious beauty of the dance in their memory. Each one trying not to think about it because they knew that just the notion of that night would cause them to fall into the same trance they fell to in the ballroom. How odd it is to ignore a memory, all while knowing it will never be forgotten. How strange it must be to lie to yourself and know the truth cannot be denied. They shut away their knowledge of the dance so they could continue living life in the facetious way they had before.  
One of the guests was a poet. He could not carry on like the others. He could not ignore the Nothingness. After the ball, his writing became only repeated attempts to understand the dancers. And to understand why they made him feel so uneasy. His attempts failed over and over again for years, until the poet had nearly given up. After hundreds, maybe thousands of discarded rough drafts, the poet wrote his last sentence. He wrote it and never again felt the need to pick up a pen. It was simple and short, and everything he had been looking for.
“I saw Death, and it was beautiful.”
this is the first piece of fiction that I've written that i actually like
I dreamt of you this morning
You were laying on my chest
My arm gently place on yours
With care,
You stroked the top of my hand
Until slowly
Our fingers interlocked
It was peaceful
I was home again
I can’t help but wonder whose chest you’re laying on now.
taylor styles Nov 2018
my sadness comes in cycles,
incomplete and abrupt.
tossing my thoughts around and around,
winding them together until they’re perfectly interlocked
and mangled beyond recognition.
the kind where one point ends,
and another begins had been blurred so beautifully
i no longer try to find a destination for the words that flow so violently through my conscious,
bumping into each and every corner
all to make sure it’s presence is known.

my sadness comes in cycles,
without warning,
baring only validation for its predecessor
taking every disgusting thought and helping them grow together,
offering no consideration for anything other than itself.

my sadness comes in cycles,
where it plants itself so deeply into my mind,
i can feel it’s roots,
draining me of all my life and energy
to makes sure it’s alive
and well.

my sadness comes in cycles,
where it carves anything it deems worthy
in to the bark of the tree
that has been flourishing in my mind for years.

my sadness comes in cycles,
where it wants me to just acknowledge that it’s here,
residing in every room of my body.
shutting off the vacancy signs that once illuminated the empty streets outside,
attempting to welcome somebody new in.
shattering the windows,
tearing down the walls i spent years building up,
stealing every key i made,
ruining every inch of my being in its path,
with no remorse or sympathy,
to look at the ruins of my body,
and feel accomplished.

my sadness comes in cycles,
acting as an innocent toddler,
throwing tantrums,
for everyone to see.
crying unapologetically
until i give it the attention it so desperately craves.

my sadness comes in cycles,
cycles, i no longer have control over.
Gods1son Apr 25
Every morning, on my way to work
I see this "old" man (in his seventies)
Walking his beloved wife to the bus stop
Her bag in his right hand
The other hand interlocked in hers

I smile right behind them
as they take step after step
talking to each other
I could hear the tone of love
in their voice
I never hear the words
(not my business I guess)

Their eyes would meet frequently
as they talk and walk
With smile blooming on their faces
I never tried to overtake them
'cause it's such a beauty to behold
A proof to me that love never gets old

At the stop sign,
He carefully places the bag back
in her hand,
followed by a short hug
Before turning his back
to head for their home

It's such a wonderful sight and
It has never failed to
leave me in awe every single time.
As I sit here and write this, I can look up and observe the people around me, physical and non-physical. They each have stories, a life, family, struggles, and triumphs. This sheer fact makes me exhausted from its truth and the anxiety it instills. Part of me wants to hear from all of them, to treat them like lost relatives and soothe them. The other part wants nothing to do with them.
Their actions seem so mechanical and predetermined as if they've always known which way to steer themselves; ancient captains of inactive ships who've moved on to more tedious things. How can I carry myself in the same manner? How can I be mechanical and predestined?...
The lightning streaking like highways across the sky tells me that it's time to stop writing. Lightning is millions of interlocked arms which reach down from the heavens to grab the unlucky. The arms which protrude from this line grasp uselessly at nothing. I am an arm which extrudes from an arm; I grasp uselessly at those around me in an attempt to capture a piece of them. Like a starving plant, or a parasite that devours eyes.
I consider these to be more journal entry than poetry.
Travis Green Dec 2018
Since this morning our bodies have
escaped into various worlds of intense
desires, strong sensual languages of
love sifting in the air, the hovering
sun staring at our sleek sweaty flesh,
legs interlocked, wild addictions
growing rampant like extreme
pumping rhythms.  

Each dancing second spins and
spins around like treading tires,
oil-slick beats bursting inside
our bellies, the thick green trees
rising in serene satisfaction,
coming alive like two lovers
swaying in an autumn breeze.

Our backs seep inside the
deepest moments, the perfect
climaxes that follow one after
the other, azure eyes on the
edge of brilliant bridges,
the light above us a space
of divine dimensions, as
our lips meet like two swans
swimming in shimmering seas.
We are almost there, the part
where magnificent nations
collide and explode into
exhilarating sensations.
You held me on my feet as I cried into your chest,
As I buried my pale, distraught face into your soft jumper,
You saw me at my most vulnerable,
With my broken heart crumbling right in front of your eyes
You interlocked your fingers with mine,
Tenderly squeezing my shaking hand as we parted,
A stream of tears still falling down my cheeks,
And yet I haven’t heard a word from you in over a week.
Do you not care? Or do you simply just not think of me?
I know your heart was hurt as well,
I could see the struggle in your eyes and hear it in your voice.
So please,
Don’t leave me to cope with this all alone.
Blckstr May 3
Do you still remember
how we stepped into the pages of a book
and lost ourselves
amid the world of romanticized words?
I mean,
do you still remember the time
when we were writing our love story
between the spaces
of unbreakable compound words?

I mean,
do you still remember
the smell of the old books
we used to get addicted to
and how we fondly read them
on our favorite wooden bench
by the rusty, timeworn streetlamp?

I mean,
have you already forgotten
how it felt to turn to the next chapter
of an underrated novel
while our hands were interlocked
with the mysteries of never-ending heartbeats?

I mean,
I still remember
how we embraced the warmth
of "I love you's" and "I miss you's"
and how they slowly turned
into obsolete phrases
swimming away from your tongue.

I mean,
I still remember
the bittersweet aftertaste
of your kisses,
of your tender hugs,
of your love poems,
of our love story
you chose to burn to ash.

Darling, I still want you
to come back for me;
I mean,
I still want to continue
everything we have started –
the bouquet of rose-scented words
and the proses we once had read
and we had written
beneath the starlit ceiling
of ever-burning feelings.

Darling, I'm still terribly in love
with the heartache
I once had felt
while holding your hand;
I mean,
I'm still stuck
inside a love-spangled book
you have ended with tragedy.
I mean,
I should've just refused
to begin our story
when I still had the chance
to create a better one
with someone else –
with someone who's way better than you,
because now,
my heart is already tired enough
to write a new one
that can make me end
my broken love for you.
h Dec 2018
you hold my hand and tell me later
I just need a friend right now
which is genuinely okay because realistically we both have issues
but darling i think that you need to understand,
going around holding people’s hands,
it’ll get you in trouble one day

stop being so stubborn and listen to your mother
for once, she just wants what’s best for you
by the way, tell her we aren’t a thing
because you know
I don’t think I want a relationship

but on the other hand
oh yeah, hands
Interlocked fingers are to be saved for
the girl that you’re waiting on
she’s out there somewhere
i don't think i love you anymore, but i still miss the feeling
Beth Bayliss Mar 29
face alight with
springtime evening glow,
you gaze down at me.
what must I look like to you -
lying in the grass,
a mess of lace and leather
and eyes that scream love
with a volume my lips could never match?

our interlocked hands twitch
and my thumb brushes your knuckles:
a question and a small reassurance,
is this okay? this is okay

lips curl into a smile.
sunlit, sun-kissed cheeks
are rose in this light
and the yellowing sky above you
seems to blush pink back -
it knows the taste of your skin too

I could live in this moment;
to me, forever is a thursday evening in march
lying on a school field
discussing small nothings

and if I can't do that,
I will live off this moment;
drinking in the sun
and the sky
and the love in your eyes
and that, my dear,
is food enough for me
she's all I want and all I cannot have.
Allison Wonder Nov 2018
The lights dim and a curtain's drawn,
A quiet theater as the show begins.
It's the same reel playing on repeat,
A shattered heart broken from sin.

He lies next to her as he'd always done,
Reliving his day through adventurous stories.
But something about him had changed that night,
The girl became something he had to seize.

A kiss of the lips catches her off guard,
"I'm sorry" escapes from under his breath.
Her chest so tight no response can form,
What comes next will surely be her death.

One hand on her side and he pulls her close,
Another kiss as he poisons her lips.
She can feel his excitement begin to rise,
He slide his leg up to part her hips.

Interlocked now she's trapped beneath him,
The weight crashing down on her soul.
A rhythm forms while his body presses in,
Her own feelings are now out of control.

The heat grows and a pulsing begins,
Something she had never felt before.
A feeling one should be allowed to enjoy,
Instead she feels like a ***** *****.

He leaves her lying there confused,
An evil grin creeps upon his face.
Where once before a bulge began,
A wet spot had formed to take its place.

No apologies now as he shuts the door,
Alone in her bed she begins to shake.
The man she thought she could look up to,
Had become the one to make her break.

And on this scene she now feels stuck,
Burning a hole through her mind like tape.
A scene no one will choose to believe,
Because it was never actually ****.
Allison Wonder © 2018
duang fu Aug 2018
let loose, darling, they told me
so they sent me an angel
with blue flowers in his hair and
just a drop of devilish mischief

in the light of day we'd be
over the hills
where spring flourishes and dances
and flowers are akin to watercolour
splatters upon a green canvas;
or at the stream
watching the water run almost nervously
while fish slip through the waters
like the wind through my hair

in the dead of night we'd be
on the roof
discussing the constellations in the sky
how the stars intertwine --
and are they all friends with the moon?
he'd ask and I'll laugh at the question
because i didn't have the answer to it;
or in the attic by ourselves
where we shouldn't be, with our
lips interlocked, his hands on my jaw
and mine at the back of his head
pulling each other close at an ungodly hour
pretending nothing would go wrong
if they caught us in this unholy act

then the time came
when they said they'd take him
away from the hills, the stream,
the stars and from me -
and I wondered how I would do
without him, for would I be lonely
with the blue sunshine he'd leave behind
or would I be anything but that?

he was my sun in the day
and my moon in the night
and so i had an answer to his question:
he loved the stars dearly
and I knew the stars
would love him
so the moon would be friends
with the stars and all of the stars
would gladly be friends with the moon

the boy laughed at my answer
he kissed me on the cheek
and told me he'd be back
for the hills, the stream,
the stars, and for me

and so I had my blue sunshine to myself
for a long time after that
but I well knew that it wouldn't last
for as long as the moon
was still friends with the stars
paramore - rose-coloured boy
tc Oct 2018
i watch the clock tick to 2 milliseconds past 1900 hours and i remember how, at 2 milliseconds past 1400 hours, just 5 hours earlier, i was cradling you in bed
it was warm and we were interlocked and you looked heavenly
the glow of the sunshine a halo around a face full of sleep and too beautiful even for poetry.
i try to verbalise you, try to write you down to make your existence more fathomable –
i cannot.
there are no words for a heart that beats honey through soft-skinned veins,  that swirls around your mouth like saliva and you taste so **** sweet.
i told my doctor i have a sweet tooth, what i meant was i am addicted to you; what i meant was i can’t stop waking up in the middle of the night to fix the cravings i have when you aren’t there.
what i meant was, sometimes i sleep walk, find myself at
platform number 5 of the same station i left you at hours before hoping that some sweet fragrance of you still lingers.
i watched the clock tick to 2 milliseconds past 1900 hours and i watched the train move away in slow motion.
i watched your face until i couldn’t see it anymore and i have never felt longing like it. suddenly i felt like a lost kid at the supermarket trying to find their parent and i wanted to scream for you to come back because although this train moved in slow motion i swear 2 milliseconds passed and you were gone.
i tried not to blink because i didn’t want to miss a single moment.
i sent you “i love you” through a screen that is too familiar to me now and felt the itch of my craving against my spine –
i will wait for you.
i replay the last kiss in my head; it was probably our seventieth goodbye kiss because each one didn’t encompass all the love we needed to express before the train departed and i taste honey.
i cannot make your existence more fathomable because that would mean to understand you and in all your complexity, i never want to stop learning –
so please,
allow me to explore your mind in every neurotransmitter, in every dopamine dosage, in every fight or flight reaction; allow me to explore what it is to be you and let me write you into every poem i ever produce, let me hallucinate you into every city street, cast your reflection in every shop window, replace every tin of beans with jars of honey and settle like dust on my lips –
i will wait for you.
every day, i wait for you.
Anya Dec 2018
Superficial rules we create
We confine ourselves within boxes
Answering a desperate plea for order
Some semblance of control, of understanding,
Shape, within shapeless mass, shapeless space
We build cages, chains, interlocked, intertwined

Yet, a common phrase
“Think outside of the box”
We acknowledge,
This cage
And in many cases it can be good
But we also acknowledge,
That to truly come up with something great, unique, to leave a
Lasting mark
One must think outside of the box left behind by our predecessor’s
Thoughts outside of their box
Which form our box

It’s like

Understand how to read notes
Before you compose your own

Know the color wheel
Before you experiment

Read books,
Before your write one

Maybe that’s where successful people come from,
People who manage to learn about their box
Well, before they manage to
Break it’s boundaries

And each minute, each second, each millisecond, each
This is happening again, and again
Our cages being broken
Reforged, anew

And through the internet, the media, mordern communications
Knowledge of this new box, these new boundaries
Can be spread

To pique another child or adult’s interest
Until the boundaries are broken
Once again
A cycle
On repeat

Until finally-

Is it like the universe,
Ever expanding,
Infinitely large
Without an end?
Dominique R Mar 2
He looks at you like you’re made of gold, not like a penny forgotten on the ground. Your eyes are more intricately designed than the stars, and they shine twice as bright. You’re now twirling in the kitchen together, and your smile reaches your eyes. You were discarded like day old bread, expired and no longer of use. Left out in the rain without an umbrella. But he strode up to you and gave you his, letting the rain soak him through.  Stolen glances and interlocked hands are now my story. No more sour milk promises and rotten apple compliments. Everything is sincere with you, and you don’t beat around the bush or cut corners. Hope is still my song, but now it’s in a new thing. It’s being loved presently, no more someday he wills. It’s everything on the table honesty, and gentle murmurs. He loves me so completely that I finally feel whole again.

— The End —