Memories, oh memories those fine grains of sand Escape between your fingers to the beating of the band Murmuring in harmony upon a demure heart Oh what a lovely pas de deux in which we find our part Rows of fleeting smiles and a million bluebird skies Intent on brightly shining as they pass befor
Minor fissures, Just hairline cracks, Spread slowly At first, Fine lines on a Smooth surface; Creeping across a Marble plain, Barely making A sound, but Marking - scarring - All the same. See here, where The lines turn At odd angles and Bend to meet, but Never touch. Traces like veins, Telling di
They say that time is a constant, In math world it is an unchanging letter k. But I say that it becomes a variable, A perfect letter x. Time can be carefully controlled, ceaseless, A cascading current. But time becomes elastic, expendable, An extraordinary extreme. We can not change the flow of
Time is a girl with curly hair that bounces with every step and twirl she takes She talks with her hands but never fails to find the right word to say She can be by your side one second and gone the next Getting lost in the crowd is fun to her She is bipolar with moods that seem too intense to ha
I seduced Time I brought her thorny flowers, held her worn hands and kissed her softly I caressed her flushed cheeks and played with her hair, long like a timeline I ran my hands along her battle-won scars and her strong but delicate body I buried my face in her neck and left little marks there,
In a far distant and long forgotten land, there stands a great forest. An ancient power is said to live within, fed into the earth through deep and powerful roots. The vastness of the strange forest covers a mountain from its base to its peak, brushing the clouds.
The night was warm and a blue haired girl sat alone at a bar. She was at one end, trying to catch a glimpse of a woman sitting opposite, a woman with long dark hair and caramel skin. Robyn knew her from somewhere, she was sure of it.
Vanessa and I talk. We like talking. The smell of acetone and wine fight in the warm air. A lull of Avett Brothers music fills the silence. Our nail beds burn, from too many attempts at “Nail Art”. The clock reads 11:54 pm. Tears trek down our beautiful faces. Sniffles out of place for the humid
As the years go by and we outgrow our old faces and our old skin and our old identities, I wonder to myself if we are really becoming new people at all, or if we are simply just accumulating more years and more selves the same way we layer our bodies with coats and scarves in the wintertime.
The clock glares at me, with the steady accusations of her hands – Where will you be In an hour, In a day, In a year?
Her disillusioned clicks and clocks sear into my brain as I stare back at her, trying to gain control of her calculated revolutions.
a house can feel like a whole world when you’re lying in your bed at 4 a.m., too early to rise in a coup against the lingering stars, too late for the soft black of the backs of eyelids to last long enough, light switch flipped up so as not to have to stare at the dark but staring at the slow mea