Like a melody that I once knew,
you sink into the buried spaces of
my mind and stain all the dull grays
a vibrant carmine.
Echoes of conversations long since past drift on a million horizons,
illusions of a mirage,
tattooing my retinas with a constellation of loss.
I weave your words from threads of
and run them across my body.
But they lose their way in the
you refused to venture near,
with the same spectacular way
I used to lose myself
at the mere thought of you.
In the caverns of my mind
amongst ruins of scattered opulence.
How brilliantly they shined
how final their destruction is.
If You are to live in here
then please restore my soul.
Set me as a seal upon Your arm,
a royal diadem in Your right hand.
A second pair of footsteps echoes in the dark,
I imagine them.
The words we leave unspoken
are the loudest of our silences.
Ahh..if my love for traveling and how it makes me feel can be immortalized in verse, this is it ♥️
I left bits and pieces of my heart in all of the places I have been. I close my eyes and find myself in the labyrinth of my mind. There, the sunlight glinting off of the bronze statue as you drive by, your head resting against the coolness of the window. There I am, splashing…
via Scattered — Coffee Flavored Thoughts
Is this who we are, then,
choreographed echoes of moments
long since faded,
like the photographs in the stack of
albums hidden in the bottom drawer
of the china cupboard,
where we still remembered how to smile
in the way only a child can.
Before disappointment came and
leached the glittering hues of innocence
from the years wrought with failing
and flying, and the terrible sepia
that stole in with the loss of childhood.
A chorus of repetition greets the day,
where mimicry is mistaken for flattery
and empty words fall like spent
bullet casings. I string them together
and loop them around my neck,
try to remember how it felt to embrace
a kaleidoscope of living color.
The dancers take the floor,
only, I am unprepared for this.
The opening strains of the orchestra
They are playing the sound my heart
made when it shattered,
The crashing cymbals, a long low note descending into darkness.
Why am I here? I don’t want to go through this anymore.
The words looked harmless at first, standing there dressed up (or is it down?)
in their elegant despondency. Beckoning
each passer-by with delicate wares made up of images like “palest eyes of Sunday blues” and “languid Friday.” A mere glance was all it took for their siren’s song to be unleashed. Weaving through the air, they danced in slow motion, falling, burrowing through
creases of skin and tears and “have mercy” and wreaked their way through lungs and fingertips and memories tinged in shades of coral. The human heart stood not a chance. Beating out its last, an almost-whisper echoed on the breeze—
Is this exquisite death or
This poem is an ode to Rachel’s poem, Sunday hues. Read it and fall hysterically in love, get your heart mangled in the process, and walk away a better person for it all.
*Photo from ArtStation by Alexey Popov
It’s superb. Go and get it.
To my love,
I will wait for you under the apple tree
in the dusk of twilight, when all the garden
will be sweet with the heady dew of evening
and the thrill of unspoken promises. There,
we will drink honeyed wine spilled
from my lips in the form of all the words I keep
in secret. They swirl inside me like new wine
flowing through my veins—
at once filling me with euphoria and a
trembling sort of heaviness. Let us frolic
in the garden, there,
like young gazelles leaping upon the hills
at the first blush of spring. Let us be
love-drunk through all the sultry hours
of the night,
for I know that all too soon,
the jealous dawn will rip you from my arms.
To my love, I will wait in breathless
anticipation for the dusk to make
its way to me once more.