enamouredpoet:

I return to dusk now.

my Orpheus gone

my love all

in shadow.

some cruel Eurydice I have become

stilted, in still air abandoned

amidst a boy’s failed

saviour complex.

mouth bitter from biting tongues

a throat filled with bones

caging words that dare jump

from a wounded heart.

I cannot locate the source

of this ache.

the tattoos adorned on your skin tell a story
let me trace every page; let me consume each word
i’m know you are aware of my desire for reading

there are moons inked on your back
i caught a glimpse of them, amidst last week’s heat
my cheeks reddened as if i imposed on something intimate
yet my eyes were bewitched and my gaze remained glued

i am intrigued, needless to say,
may i learn more of this tale?
or is this an instance of passing by a bookshop window
and never finding that windowsill display again

i barely even know you
you are not the woman you present yourself as
but, i know more about you than others like me do
so tell me please,

will there ever come a day i will learn of your moons?
-this is not something the textbooks can answer

i knew you were never attainable,
so i love you from afar
the idea of you so beautiful,
i refuse to seek the true reality

wonder is a synonym for beauty
we fall for things we do not understand
for the excitement of not knowing intoxicates our souls
the thrill of risking everything for the unknown is romantic

strip something of its essence, and replace it with fact and figure,
the appeal is no longer existent; the thrill cease to be
el sol glows as a gentle jewel hanging from my window
up close, she wields enchanting flames of destruction

what would it be like to be alone with you again?
it’s been so long, i have almost forgotten
the way my heart would pound against my chest,
the way your eyes would dive into my soul

you are an explorer, plummeting into the ocean of my heart
i usher you forward, daring you even
it’s dark, and dangerous; too deep and you may drown
but beneath it all is the gold
glistening dully, on its last thread of hope

the memories are fading into nothingness
but maybe it’s meant to be,
like letting go of blissful childhood, when
adulthood is ushering you forward
yet, i miss the way i felt when i was alone with you
don’t let this be something ordinary in pink tint

i ache, and i ache, but that will do nothing at all
please call for my name, i just want to feel special once more

but you are a painting and i am a bystander
you are as beautiful as sappho, and i say this with candour
i stop and i stare, but i’m not the only one
your world does not revolve around me for i am not the sun

the sun and the moon are not lovers
the sun and the universe are
the sun’s kisses to the universe are
known to you and i, as the stars

i search for you in everything i can
i scan the poetry books we both love,
scavenging for a glimpse of your words,
in someone else’s
i listen to the band we talked
about, with passion
and listen to how your heart crumbled
i look for la luna every night
to see your reflection

-sol, it is pains me too much to face you directly

ladynephthyss:

the intimacy of playing with someone else’s hands. like, it sounds weird but tapping on each other’s wrists and entwining fingers and stroking the lines of palms. it‘a like a conversation no one else can hear.

i want to brush and braid your hair and crown you with blossoms and belladonna.

A Love Poem.

Let me be your darling.

My heart yearns to hold

Yet I face each day alone,

From rise til fall,

Each night grows,

My love comparable.

So, if I may ask,

Your hand in mine,

Let me be your darling,

And you’ll equate my love.

eunoia

(noun)

beautiful thinking; a well mind

“In the dream I don’t tell anyone, you put your head in my lap.”

Richard Siken, ‘I had a dream about you’

‘wyd’? no i want a handwritten love letter on how i am the ultimate love of your life, how much you miss me and why i should drop everything i’m doing to flail into your arms

virginia woolfe’s guide to reading ‘right’:

novels: “do not dictate your author. try to become him. be his fellow worker and accomplice.” what is the author feeling? what do they hope i will feel from this? what do they think they know the answers to?

poetry: poetry is a MOMENT. let your emotions and instincts rule. a good poem is like a shock of personal emotion. the purpose of a poem is to grasp and centre the reader in a mood or movement. allow yourself to get carried away by sensation.

biography: that longing we all feel when sometime in the evening you’re standing in front of a house and the windows are lit. that urge to understand another person’s life. biographies “light up innumerable such houses”. within the mundane, revel in those moments making up everyday life for this person.

references from: How Should One Read a Book - Virginia Woolfe

roots of hair blooming from the bed that is her golden skin,

tear residue on the waterline; a waterfall she conceals within

yet she is both sandalwood and grapefruit juice,

because that is her spirit and the scent of her hair she lets loose.

morgan harper nichols

“a beauty neither of fine colour nor long eyelash, nor pencilled brow, but of meaning, of movement, of radiance. then her soul sat on her lips, and language flowed.”

Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

vintage

a black corset hangs in my room, i read archaic classics, i play 60s jazz and wear dated pieces probably worn on the arm of someone who had a longer story than mine; my world is woven with antiquity and age, divine, divine age.

Your hands on my back,

Slow tenderness to soothe me.

How did you learn all this?

Tell me again about the part

Where grief is not my name.