I may have spent the last 45 minutes wandering the streets of my town in the rain feeling dazed.
I was tinkering around this morning. I dunno. It sounds nice.
Slip sweetly under the sheets with you
In our bedroom for two
Soft skin—entangled limbs
What I would give
To be safe with you
Shout out to le editor!
Thank you for featuring my short story. I’m very proud of it, and I’m glad you saw something in it to feature. I’m excited to share it with more people. :)
“Lovers’ names, carved in walls/Overlap, start to merge/
Some of them underneath/Maybe they appear/In graveyards/
Maybe they fade away/Weathered and overgrown/Time has told/
Meaningful hidden words/Suddenly appear, from the murk/
Maybe they’re telling us/That the end/Never was/Never will/
The words have gone/But the meaning, will never disappear/From the wall”
Everything was blurry—like opening your eyes underwater in a lake. Except it wasn’t as nearly as silent as it would be underwater. Beep. Beep. Beep. She rolled over and turned off her alarm. Not hungover this morning—but she still felt like shit. She closed her eyes for a second. And dreamt. Her dreams still felt blurry. But at least she was dreaming again. Beep. Beep. Beep. She turned off her alarm again, and closed her eyes. Mornings were hard. Her mind moved too slowly, like cough syrup dripping out of its bottle into a spoon. The bed was warm. The sheets were soft. But it was Monday, wasn’t it? That meant his package would arrive today. That was worth waking up for. A car sped by outside; birds chirped incessantly—there was always one dove lamenting outside on the powerline for a mate; her neighbor just got out of the shower; her boss had just received a phone call from an employee who was sick; the employee just got back into bed with a slightly hungover blonde whose makeup was smeared; his dog sat outside watching a squirrel climb a tree and chatter; the mailman walked by and deposited some mail in the squeaky mailbox; coffee brewed; ties straightened; cars started; lunches packed for kids; bus stop; stop sign; crosswalk; sun visor down. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Why yes. That is a backstreet boys t shirt.
I fight to find meaning with the recycling of a calendar and broken champagne bottles and evenings spent alone.
I buy roses to plant in the snow to bury beauty and love and promises unkept.
I hope the summer skies aren’t filled with smoke because the ground is brown.
Desperation to thaw.
Unrest. Because the whole world is shifting and I can feel it. Everything is coming alive, and I must, too.
Mountains that still hold some snow. But the ground is green and during the day it sweats just like a slick back in the sun.
I can’t remember what it’s like to feel cold.
Gusts of wind that are cold, but the air is still warm. Expectancy of suffocation from expectations. Stop waiting.
Everything feels different, but still the same. Routines. Routines. I remember you.
I realize the sun forgot to smile at me today and I at her. She can hold grudges.
I think I found happiness in the cusp of your lips—in the time when you take a breath to speak and when the words flow from your mouth. Mesmerized. Captivated. Trapped. Happily so. You save me from my unlovely worries—the ones that form creases in my brow—and return me to a place of slumber where in dreams my face shines from a light left on and a smile from peace.
Don’t ever stop talking to me.
an impolite pair of young bees
just adored rubbing cheese on their knees
they didn’t like honey
which some folk found funny
and they never said “thank-you” or “please”
(c) copyright icrappoetry, 2013
I wish you could come crawl in bed with me. I just want to lay by your side.
Dimples are places
Where those who have frowned
Can store smiles
And that’s why it seems they