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the definition of migratei am brittle-boned,
hollow, a bird about to
glide into the warmth
of your hands. (i am
going to fly away - i
will leave at midnight.)
you're breathing slowly
as if it will affect the
time that blinks, blurry,
as if you're making
it slow down, and we try to
squeeze out every small
drop of memories
we could be forming. we are
stars (we are going
to fall, we will hit
the earth). we're a cigarette
lit underwater -
- you are a bird too,
the one which my ribs cannot
cage. (i set you free.)
all together, now--i.
Like hands outstretched, like jutted shoulder blades, like a dandelion swept away by the wind.
She is sure she, too, is gone.
You are beautiful, he whispers, as if it is supposed to be some sort of consolation that he is exhaling promises and empty compliments, things reminiscent of what left long ago.
The battered Converse by the door. She slips them on and leaves at sunrise, in the wake of his snoring that she is trying not to hear. She's not away for long, he's not even awake when she returns, and yet she gets the feeling this is the furthest she's ever been.
I'm not here right now, she says quietly against the stubble of his jaw, not quite mastering that effect he has of breathing his syllables when he talks.
Then where are you?
Atlantis, she says, slightly desperately, though not entirely sure why. Outer space. Somewhere on Pluto, maybe.
But you're not here?
She wants to say
etched into the asphalt.I used to believe in you the way some people believe in hard work and human kindness: unconditionally. Necessarily.
(I believed in your hair and the way you talked and how you laughed. I don't know whether you are, but I am sorry, okay.)
You felt so bad when you accidentally tripped me, once, and my knees bled onto the asphalt.
"I fell," I would always tell people.
"I tripped her," you'd say, ashamed, and I told you it didn't matter.
I had fallen, all the same.
There is no way to accurately put into words the emotion sparking the air when we sat underneath that pine tree in the sandy grass at the edge of the field. We were sweaty and happy and invincible, the world was at our fingertips and we were grasping it with all we had.
I'm not sure how to depict how badly I want to shake you by your shoulders, years later, when these days it seems you are concentrated fiercely on ignoring me. I want to take you back to the pine tree and the asphalt, tell you stories of what we used to have in c
and it was all a dream.feel: You are just barely out of reach, just slightly untouchable. I ball up my fists to keep myself from stretching out to check- I want to make sure you are not merely a ghost, an illusion, a wisp of something that is just enough to drive me mad.
smell: I think you are bittersweet, like the ocean, like the brininess of wind that sweeps over the dunes and fills me with longing. For what, I was never quite sure.
I don't know anything. I never will.
taste: Something metallic, like blood almost, against my tongue and the roof of my mouth. something dry, like I'm dehydrated and perhaps you're the water to keep me alive.
I think, perhaps, you're also what's sucking the water out of my body.
People only last a few days without H2O.
look: I meet your eyes and only for a moment, only just enough time for one human heartbeat, only just enough time for everything to change, something clicks into place and then we both look away and it's gone. You have black hair and dark eyes and freckly elbows
dust and empty sidewalksI remember when we said goodbye, the flowers were blooming, the sun
was shining, and it was a beautiful day. I traced circles in the sidewalk dust
with the tip of my battered Converse and squinted against the light.
"I guess this is it," you said. "Forever." I shook my head. "We'll see each other again
someday." I had to believe it, I didn't have a choice. Could I have lived with
A bright yellow flower thrived in the dry dirt by the oak tree as you walked away.
I didn't watch you leave. Instead I focused on that flower (it looked more like a weed,
come to think of it) to keep myself from falling apart right there. It was too late, I
had already fallen.
I still have the image imprinted in my brain of you smiling and waving at me
from the window of your car, turning to say a wordless goodbye as I trudged
home. Were you really so happy to be leaving?
I had hoped that, when you visited two Januaries ago, maybe it would be all right
and I could live with you being hours away,
listen, it's like this: i tried to tell you that i loved you, and you were standing right there but you were much too far away to hear me.
what i did was lay out in the middle of the street at midnight, and counted what few stars i could see through the silhouettes of the pine trees. my eyes were awash with memories and the yellowish glow emanating from the streetlights. it started to rain, then, at twelve forty-two. one drop landed on my cheek and ran across the bridge of my nose. i'm sure i looked like i was crying, but there was no one there to see.
i pretended you were lying next to me, still holding my hand.
you are no longer substance to me, you are a shadow, you are a whisper spoken a moment too late. you are grains of sand and i spread my fingers too far apart, you slipped through the spaces. you could not stay.
i counted fifty-six stars that night.
i could not go.
the number eighthe sees the world through a kaleidoscope of shattered
p ie ce s,
and i am falling
a p a r t
trying to hold his world
there's an underlying sadness in every
syl - la - ble
he speaks, a layer of stitched regret in the form of
dirty dishes and coffee rings
on the table. if this was a disorder, it'd be
emp ti ness ,
peeling paint, and the number
when i asked him whether he thought
people could make themselves be
he sighed through narrow nostrils and told me
some people were made to be
happiness for dummiesi am playing the piano underneath
the dusty floorboards of your heart, nailed
together by the raindrops
falling from the tips of my fingers
and toes. we stand
and view the sky sideways,
sunrise north and sunset right
and everything left in between.
flowers bloom from
the sound of our laughter
and we will continue to
lay in the clouds. people
look like giants from here.
step 1 (the only
step): become the adrenaline,
become the quiet, become
the rain and
evaporate from outstretched hands.
lie in bed and count the
laugh lines across the ceiling,
find the color in the black and white.
polaroidshe snapped the picture quickly. the image filed neatly out from the camera, just moments later: the glory of a polaroid.
he was laughing, head thrown back, fingers gripping the grass like her hair or lifelines or maybe they were the same thing. i got it, she said, waving the picture in his face with an air of triumph.
he took it from her and his grin started to fade. his hold on the earth loosened. when he smiled again, it felt stale and sad and altogether the things a smile shouldn't be.
something, she said.
you hardly ever see me happy like that, he whispered.
that's the beauty of it.
will that be the beauty of it when i'm depressed again tomorrow?
maybe, she said. but she felt them wilting, and settled down beside him feeling like the blades of grass he was uprooting.
in her head she was saying: i wish.
Parentheses All Clicking Shuti.
Let's say you have a story. Let's say you have a page where there should be a story, but the paper is empty and the inkstains are fresh on your tongue and the words keep diving back into your throat every time you try to speak or write. Remember, darling, when you told me that a bare book is like the faces of newly-made angels? You used to have something for this: a shallow well inside your chest where you could put the thoughts and the silence and the prayers and other forgotten things and every time you needed something beautiful I would reach inside and pull it out for you. But it's gone now, the well and the water and whatever else was in it. Everything is gone.
I once was a writer too, you know, back before there were things like castles and dragons and fairytales and true love always ended in flames. I built a story built a world built a kingdom, a forest filled with arrow-backed saplings and leaves swimming in golden light, the sun gliding down to illuminate the dark patc
you are the shadow-specter painted upon these white-washed walls, the phantasm inked on maple scrolls grown dank with hope that aged amidst the dust, the ghost that haunts the stargazer lilies blooming in the depths of the mud. Belladonna crawls along the woodwork of weeping willows, their roots reaching for the sky as they strangle the morning glories that crumble in the pre-rain gloom. Skylarks lull crabapple trees to sleep and sing as the dawn arises from behind a veiled fog.
There is a balcony carved from rowan in the front yard, where we shall sit in the dying half-light of dusk and sip at gently-steaming jasmine, and I will ask you whether the loose-leaf souls that once littered these walls are kept in the pantry or beneath the floorboards, where the gutter-rats cannot reach them.
Neither, you'll say.
They are stowed away in the shoebox you keep hidden in your backyard, buried beneath dirt and the roots of thirsting dandelions. There the nightshade grows in
When Freein obscure hours
the sky has melted away
fingertips touch above treetops
hearts sprout feathers to fly
winternovember was a murmur
that just made words
december was _______ at all
january brings news of snow
but winter you're too late
we're cold already
this is the winter of
We WereI think we were almost angels once, you and I, with our fingers
scraping against the sky like beatific wings-
back when our hearts still rustled with the vernal wind
as autumn breathed red from thin crevices that spilled across the bark
our empty bones;
when we still listened
to the crooning of the ocean as it echoed between each pine tree
and the voices of molting dandelions as they murmured
"All I ever wanted was to see the sun"
because the howling sequoia hollows were too large to hear them
and the nightingales were too free to care.
We twined our fingers as if they were wheat stalks
waiting to be braided into thistle-crowns fit for martyrs or messiahs
and walked together through a pseudo-Eden where the rye fields
treated us like kings; gave us
budding amaranth in a thousand shades of indigo to wield as scepters
and commanded the uprooted plants to genuflect at our feet
with their leaded limbs-
but the water willows
that befriended my sorrow only stood and trembled,
The weakness of tulipsA week in passing, each day a flourish
of gardens emerging from my wrists,
an entire silence of days in the shape
of hands. Words like drained wine bottles spin
and whistle on the linoleum.
In my rooms I am happiest.
In the single atheistic blossom
of winter I dance the longest. Along
the empty shore, up and down the lines of night,
I am more fully myself, more completely
the invention of blood in my body.
Look out from the starved light of an ancestor;
feel origin curve from the bottom of a cup;
watch for the gesturing zodiac.
Be aware of the other side of the moon,
of the invisible quarters of the city.
I am forgetting the faces of my enemies.
I have forgotten already my own face.
It is best to feel beautiful.
I miss the limp petals of the weak but
lovely tulip and the furled ceremony
of the rose; they are the most human flowers,
rain-busted, nourished by what devastates them.
I wake to be devastated.
To be dismissed from one sphere, to enter
chasing a breeze.you are reminiscent of wind.
silent, maybe a ghost
until you're screaming
through the cracks. i am silent
as the weight of you breaks me, like
a power line that's lost its magic.
you were always hard to handle,
to contain, we have more chance
of catching a breeze
than tying you down.
i jumped, parachute in hand, and
watched the colors of the world
fall with me, spinning and diving.
i prayed for you to fill my parachute
and keep me from crashing,
but you never did.
the colours blended
into one shade of red
as i hurtled to oblivion
and you chose just
the right moment
to be silent.
i'm left empty,
hollow. there is no music
left in me, no magic,
no feelings. there is only
the cold of my tears and
the holes in my bones, and i dream
of waking up.
can't destroy the night terrors
and the cold sweats.
dreaming can't trap your winds
or bring you to me again.
i beg, scream, whisper
until my voice is ripped
and my soul is dry,
but you are only silent.
staccato, legatoright now i'd say we're
mezzo forte, hopefully
a fermata that
will last us forever. you
see, you're quite a hard
piece, and i have been
struggling to reach your notes
for several years now.
our music, it's full
of rests and difficult trills,
but we still play, from
and everything in between.
and i'm still hoping
this piece never ends.
because our part's beautiful,
and i'm not stopping.
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scheinbar is a much-loved and well-known deviant. Just one look at her gallery, filled with enchanting photography, will have you mesmerized. A deviant for over 7 years, Christiane can always be found posting inspirational features as well as regularly commenting on other deviations and encouraging and empowering her fellow deviants. We are inspired and insist that you too stop by and congratulate ... Read More