(via atomiclanterns)
And this is how we danced: our mothers’
white dresses spilling from our feet, late August
turning our hands dark red. And this is how we loved:
a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers
sweeping through my hair—my hair a wildfire.
We covered our ears and your father’s tantrum turned
to heartbeats. When our lips touched the day closed
into a coffin. In the museum of the heart
there are two headless people building a burning house.
In case of rain, there was always the shotgun
above the fireplace. Always another hour to kill—only
to beg some god to return the seconds. If not the attic,
the car. If not the car, the dream. If not the boy, his clothes.
If not alive, put down the phone. Because the year
is a distance we’ve traveled in circles. Which is to say:
this is how we danced: alone in sleeping bodies.
Which is to say: this is how we loved: a knife on the tongue
turning into a tongue.
i just need the world to stop for a little while, so i can lie in bed and eat cinnamon bread and look out at the way the wet pavement looks like it’s carving itself through the grass and process everything that’s happened and is happening and will happen. tonight i feel foggy and feverish and strange. i’m debating the merits of calling in sick to work tomorrow to spend the night drinking tea and finishing my late work. everything is ending so fast. i have four more days of high school left. i can’t process the idea that i will have to say goodbye to people, and today i was so overwhelmed with everything that i didn’t move from your side for an hour. sometimes we all just need to be held by someone who knows all of the bad stuff and still wants to kiss us. sometimes that’s all we need, something to make up for the rain and the silent rides home and how fleeting time is.
(via deliciates)
