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Literature Text
12.6.12
I want my love
to grow into my hands,
blooming like flowers,
reaching like vines
until it reaches you,
however far away.
I want it to hold you
in a way that I can't
and I want it to be
your closest friend
when your ghosts
stick closer than skin,
telling you that
you have to be alone.
Instead, my love
grows like crystals
in my chest and
leaves my breath
whistling a song.
I want my love
to grow into my hands,
blooming like flowers,
reaching like vines
until it reaches you,
however far away.
I want it to hold you
in a way that I can't
and I want it to be
your closest friend
when your ghosts
stick closer than skin,
telling you that
you have to be alone.
Instead, my love
grows like crystals
in my chest and
leaves my breath
whistling a song.
Literature
For Jared
Soul so strong, made of steel
Built to last and built to feel
Rarest heart and gentle mind
Love only few and far can find
Raging storm, passion’s dear
Flying fingers, music’s ear
Steady beat, pulse is low
Fire’s spark, the warmest glow
Once was sailing, came to shore
Two feet firm upon the floor
Down the lane a dream does lay
Somehow he will find his way
From the darkness comes the light
Bravest courage, strongest might
Scars once written fade away
Happier each passing day
Take a hand, home he will guide
Adventure bound, luckiest bride
A life found within his eyes
Consistently a new surprise. <3
Literature
Dromomania
Every day I turn the key in the lock
Hoping to find you
tucked into the white folds
of an envelope,
of the bath towel I left on the sofa this morning.
But you and I, we haven't the breadth for that sort of thing.
I wish I could send you something of spring,
some distended meteor green with hope.
I'm watching the last of the oak leaves cling
stubborn
and I think
spring may not be coming this year.
There is no birdsong, there is
the furious sleeping of toads in the mud.
I came on the bench
where I slept in the warmth of your memory
this time last year.
Now the thought seems less mine and maybe it was
me you'd dreamt beside,
m
Literature
A Few, Famous Weeks...
A Few, Famous Weeks For Forgetting
16807.
He had tied his index finger to her memories with a thread. Whenever he’d raise his fingers at her, she knew he’s talking about her past.
2401.
She wanted him to be precise. But for the moments that went unnoticed, he often rounded-off her memories.
343.
When she walked out of his heart, she forgot to tell him where she kept the key to their cupboard. They had designed their cupboard to be airtight. To keep their memories safe from the fungus and bacteria. It was an alternative to their own hearts.
She had taken his alternative away, forever - he thought.
This morning, she had steppe
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and what if my love is crystal? would it be of any comfort to you then?
this is a poem of love never having long enough arms to touch those you think it should.
and at the end of the day, you just want them to feel loved and realize that they are absolutely wonderful people.
this is a poem of love never having long enough arms to touch those you think it should.
and at the end of the day, you just want them to feel loved and realize that they are absolutely wonderful people.
© 2012 - 2024 tiajones
Comments10
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THIS-THIS-THIS. You said it perfectly. And those ghosts--those oh-so familiar ghosts...
"when your ghosts
stick closer than skin,
telling you that
you have to be alone."
And I do want you to know... even when you feel like you can't reach... I have felt a little of your love. And it is spectacular.
"when your ghosts
stick closer than skin,
telling you that
you have to be alone."
And I do want you to know... even when you feel like you can't reach... I have felt a little of your love. And it is spectacular.