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how long ago?
that the word love
slipped from between us
Only the word love,
never the actions of kissing or cuddling
Words in longing messages
that meant to stretch
like adolescent fingers over fifty miles
from my city to yours
Words in awkward phone calls,
and secret messages,
where I would sneak to a computer,
once, maybe twice a day,
to send and receive the word love with you.
and the few sweet words
in cursive, from your own hand
in a card late for Valentines day some years ago,
that was discovered by my parents
(that sits, still, in one of my drawers)
which made forbidden and thus stronger
the word love
So, why now,
years after the words,
the angry, hurtful, abandoning words,
after the loss of one sweet word;
why do the words of a song
playing on a radio,
a song from the mix tape you made me years ago,
keep me trapped in my car
in an empty parking lot,
remembering fondly the world love?
Hot CarWhat is a poet without his muse?
You can be the heatwave at the end
of a long, cool summer,
and I'll be the black interior of a car.
Crack open a window to let this bottled poetry out,
and my words will burn like a seat belt buckle.
Hey, Future BabyHey, Future Baby,
sitting at a someday bar stool
while I mix you a not-yet drink,
because I'm too young now,
and heck, maybe you are too
but heck, maybe you're not.
Hey, Future Baby,
with your future hair
eventually pushed behind
your future ear,
and I'm fixing you a drink,
because, heck, what else?
Maybe you won't want to talk,
but if you'll be willing to listen
I'll tell you
It's okay, I'm the King of Being Stood Up,
and your not-yet drink is on the house.
And maybe you'll smile
with your future lips
and feel better about
what you will be feeling then.
If you stay long enough,
I'll tell you
I think I wrote a poem about you when I was nineteen
and you'll laugh into your drink
because it's a weird thing to say,
and hey, Future Baby,
it's on the house.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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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