the wind is teething
soon, bite marks will cover skin
winter is coming
soon, bite marks will cover skin
winter is coming
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
Private Concert
Six strings
of a guitar
and your voice, low and deep-
a philharmonic orchestra
for me.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Love Story
Someday I will write our love story. The one that never happened.
I will write about the letters we never wrote to each other, and the cards we never sent. About the songs you never sang for me, and the dress I never wore for you. I will write about all the times we didn't dance under the moonlight, and the times we didn't hold hands at the movies.
I will translate all your silences into the words you never whispered, and put a tune to the sonnets I never wrote.
I will write about the day we didn't kiss in the rain, and the night we didn't spend, just talking.
Someday I will construct you and me- with ink and syllables, and flights of fancy, on vast sheets of blank paper. And I will stitch our stories together, with my needle and thread, and my craft.
Someday I will finally write our love story. The one in which we don't hate each other.
I will write about the letters we never wrote to each other, and the cards we never sent. About the songs you never sang for me, and the dress I never wore for you. I will write about all the times we didn't dance under the moonlight, and the times we didn't hold hands at the movies.
I will translate all your silences into the words you never whispered, and put a tune to the sonnets I never wrote.
I will write about the day we didn't kiss in the rain, and the night we didn't spend, just talking.
Someday I will construct you and me- with ink and syllables, and flights of fancy, on vast sheets of blank paper. And I will stitch our stories together, with my needle and thread, and my craft.
Someday I will finally write our love story. The one in which we don't hate each other.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
The Proposal
They always went to open-air restaurants.
She was allergic to cigarette smoke. And he was, well, a chain smoker.
His clothes always stink of cigarettes and…ugh, his teeth are starting to yellow. She frowned at him from across the table.
He was quite oblivious to her scrutiny.
I will never marry a chimney. She wrinkled her nose in annoyance as the fumes passively touched her face.
‘Give me your hand,’ he said, grinning, and wove a delicate smoke ring around her ring finger.
‘Will you marry me?’
She stared at him for a second before deciding.
‘Yes!’ she replied, ecstatic.
old stuff- a medley
stray thoughts in three lines
of seventeen syllables
sanity intact
---
sugar, cinnamon
in a sea of milk and rice-
your words are dessert
---
snowflakes in my hair
pink blossoms under my feet
winter still lingers
---
spirals of pasta
missing carbonara sauce
my life without you
of seventeen syllables
sanity intact
---
sugar, cinnamon
in a sea of milk and rice-
your words are dessert
---
snowflakes in my hair
pink blossoms under my feet
winter still lingers
---
spirals of pasta
missing carbonara sauce
my life without you
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