my hands are pacing,
driven wild by these
of vibrant boulevards
my fingertips could discover
upon crossing the bend
of your collarbone.
|You don't feel me in here, anymore.|
I stayed up all night painting your face so
I could beat the birds to crying your name
and the world would shudder and shake in two syllables
once the first glitters of dawn skittered across the horizon
and skipped across the tips of your blindfold eyelids;
I stayed up all night losing my sanity so
I could on auto-pilot put my body to work
and my hands would find a natural rhythm
in the swoop and crash of heat transfer
bobbing up and down in the waves of your skin;
I stayed up all night dancing so
I could prance through the doors of your dreams
and I would step and spin without your guidance
until your eyelashes fluttered awake with pride singing
and our distance would hum along with the song and close in;
I stayed up all night lighting fireworks so
I could pretend I was a sailor lost at sea
and you would find me shipwrecked at the shore
tame my soul's raging waves before the day could break
and giggle the whole way back to your lighthouse escape;
I stayed up all night writing these verses so
I could capture the firefly words to speak when your lips
first parted with the adieu of a yawn
and my tongue would sprinkle across them all
the te quiero's and ich liebe dich's my heart has been choking on.
It is the romance of psychology
over cigarettes in the dark
like shooting stars
that suck oxygen
to feed the flames of fate
It is the shocking truth
when facts click together
in a flurry of
crash bound meteorites
and twinkling comet tails
over the newly tangible horizon
of your skeleton
It is the passion
the delayed gratification
and the satisfaction
of smoke seeping
slowly from slick lips
It is holding the power of gravitation
betwixt my hands
to sway the orbit of Venus
within your whirlpool irises
so your eyes fall
at the shedding of my crust
and flow down it
to engulf me
It is the soft sweeping motion
of the moon's
intent passing gaze
as your waves reverberate
and reach the shore
of my iron core
It is the absolute absence of mass
and the clash
of fire and ice in the flash
of a volcanic eruption
within my tectonic plates
that rock and cradle you
whilst my legs quake
and scrape the speed of light
It is a firework's smooth acceleration
to a rough explosion
as the glitter of an exhale
rips a hundred holes
nicotine withdrawalhis fingers are drumming on the metal ring round the countertop. his knee is sharp and jostling, beating out a ruthless rhythm in time with his tongue flicking against his teeth.nicotine withdrawal by ohsostarryeyed
his knuckles are raw, fingers chewed senseless and bloodied. the waitress casts uneasy looks his way every few seconds. she is concerned for him; he is jittery and looks like a boy she met at a party once, where she first tried ecstasy and the boy he resembled fell into a heroin coma.
his eyes are rolling around, looking at everything but focusing on nothing. the waitress wraps her fingers around her elbow, feeling awkward and unbearably nervous. this boy wore the same brown jacket, the same messy red hair as- what was his name? she frowns at her lapse in memory, cursing the ecstasy she took again before her shift tonight.
he is on his tenth coffee. he does not even look straight ahead, he is more interested in the front of his dark shirt and his bloody fingers banging on the counter.
the waitress is pulling o
a city's kiss"you look rough."a city's kiss by ohsostarryeyed
"like sandpaper, baby."
"i'm the pg-version of the rock-bottom girl. got my big-ass cup full of...tea. sitting on the curb with my hand subtly in my pocket...texting. texting my mother. i'm asking her to pick me up. chewing gum like it's tobacco. instead of rotting my teeth, i'm preventing cavities."
"are those the clothes you wore yesterday?"
"absolutely. got lost in the city after..."
"no. are you going to make me talk about it?"
"most certainly. were you hurt?"
"funny question. ask a better one."
"was it a boy?"
"ugh. well, yeah."
"tell me about him."
"well see, i don't really talk to him but that's less out of choice and more out of necessity. and i don't really talk about him but that's more out of choice than necessity, because if that wasn't by choice, it'd be a necessity."
"but you do talk to him?"
"and i will until he tells me he doesn't want me at all."
"but you're subjecting yourself to being used."
"so it really just