dandelions in the briar patchit was in sweet december that you caught my heart like a thorn hooking into a silk dress. on the sixth of every month (each one getting closer to forever) we go for a picnic in the briar patch. we pick dandelions in the few sparse clearings where they are given permission to grow (and boy how they grow!) i trace the outline of your beard with my fingers, calling you mr. mountain goat while you rub my shaved head, telling me that i'm a free spirit (though these aren't your exact words, i know it's what you meant). you whisper softly into the curve of my neck, "you know, i really like you a whole lot..." anddandelions in the briar patch
you've been kissed by the sunanother day in this beautiful town. peace radiates from the candle flame. the fragrance is like icing on the cake. it's been seven years since i've heard the symphony of the locusts, beckoning, calling from the trees. flip flops flapping in morse code. H-A-P-P-Y B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y, even though it isn't, it feels like it is. the park downtown giggles like a babbling brook. the children are cooing, a language learned from the bag lady and all of her friends. it's 4p.m. and you've been kissed by the sun. strolling, strolling along.you've been kissed by the sun
abraham's secret placethe sliver of moon hanging in the sky tonight is achingly beautiful.abraham's secret place
i think that if i were looking at it in the reflection of your eyes, my heart would crumble into a hundred little pieces. i would sweep them up and put them into a mason jar, and give them to you as a belated christmas gift (even though you made me promise to not get you anything). i would insist that i couldn't give them to any other person. eventually you would have to cave in and put the jar into the back of your cupboard. and when our son Abraham (who i pray has eyes half as delicate as yours) has his seventh birthday, you can dust off the
orion and andromeda.look, it happened like this.orion and andromeda.
you were holding a child's telescope and a book on galileo. i was holding a grudge against men and fresh flowers.
you called it fate, and it wasn't until years later that i found out you didn't even believe in fate. you just believed in the curve of my spine and the way i tucked my feet beneath me in the chair.
within an hour of meeting you i loved you.
i wanted to tell you my middle name. i wanted to tell you about how i sprained my wrists seven times. i wanted to tell you stories about orion and andromeda, but it was cloudy and your eyes were asking for more t
Lightning_01
sleep kills productivity
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If I had stealth enough to sneak, Around your house, I’d turn your bed sheets inside out
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"It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors." - Oscar Wilde
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"The way which can be spoken of is not the constant way."~Lao Tzu
[link]
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connected like two tin cans on a string.
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If I had stealth enough to sneak, Around your house, I’d turn your bed sheets inside out
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