the enticing glow of your excited eyes and solemn lips.
we struggle for sleep on the cold sheets of lonely beds.
Eye contact is
awkwardly always avoided,
in favour of staring into coffee or bright laptop screens.
Talk about nothing is everywhere;
we feel we must make noise, or be forgotten.
That summer we read a lot of coming-of-age books,
kidnapping inspiration for our angsty poems,
dragging it by the heels into hotboxed bedrooms.
Bed beckons,
over and over again I wish to be tangled in sheets
where I once tangled with you,
a sorry sack of feelings with beautiful eyes.
Does the world need another angsty teenage love poem?
I have a million words but your name is my favourite.
(My words are like a window,
through which I can see all that you feel.)
I have no desire to fix or be fixed;
life is something happening
outside the doors and curtained windows.
The world passes us by,
out of reach of the realms of our blanket fort.
You liked to pull me out of bed to the window
on starry nights
and point out the constellations-
darling i miss your conversation.
You are the rhythm and rhyme to every day.
Pride painted across pained faces;
something has been detracted,
and you are not whole as you once were.
Eyes meeting across crowded rooms,
my pulse pounding through my palms,
knowing I have no words.
Your apathy will be the end of me.
I say nothing if not invited;
My thoughts aren't as wonderful as yours.
You lean close,
whisper...
"Are the moon and the sun friends or do they fight for the sky?"
"One day,
let's just buy train tickets and hope they take us to the end of the world."
"I hope it's warm there."
-g.m
______________________________________________________
some context:
this is a poem made up of little fragments that my friend and i have been adding to a journal for months. these fragments are anything from few words long to whole stanzas, but i was getting sick of them not amounting to anything, and so i put them together in a long, slightly rambling piece of very very very free verse.
and that is why it possibly makes very little sense.
oh well.
it is still a thing made of words, so you can have it.
much love
x
we struggle for sleep on the cold sheets of lonely beds.
Eye contact is
awkwardly always avoided,
in favour of staring into coffee or bright laptop screens.
Talk about nothing is everywhere;
we feel we must make noise, or be forgotten.
That summer we read a lot of coming-of-age books,
kidnapping inspiration for our angsty poems,
dragging it by the heels into hotboxed bedrooms.
Bed beckons,
over and over again I wish to be tangled in sheets
where I once tangled with you,
a sorry sack of feelings with beautiful eyes.
Does the world need another angsty teenage love poem?
I have a million words but your name is my favourite.
(My words are like a window,
through which I can see all that you feel.)
I have no desire to fix or be fixed;
life is something happening
outside the doors and curtained windows.
The world passes us by,
out of reach of the realms of our blanket fort.
You liked to pull me out of bed to the window
on starry nights
and point out the constellations-
darling i miss your conversation.
You are the rhythm and rhyme to every day.
Pride painted across pained faces;
something has been detracted,
and you are not whole as you once were.
Eyes meeting across crowded rooms,
my pulse pounding through my palms,
knowing I have no words.
Your apathy will be the end of me.
I say nothing if not invited;
My thoughts aren't as wonderful as yours.
You lean close,
whisper...
"Are the moon and the sun friends or do they fight for the sky?"
"One day,
let's just buy train tickets and hope they take us to the end of the world."
"I hope it's warm there."
-g.m
______________________________________________________
some context:
this is a poem made up of little fragments that my friend and i have been adding to a journal for months. these fragments are anything from few words long to whole stanzas, but i was getting sick of them not amounting to anything, and so i put them together in a long, slightly rambling piece of very very very free verse.
and that is why it possibly makes very little sense.
oh well.
it is still a thing made of words, so you can have it.
much love
x
No comments:
Post a Comment