scissors and ropes
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About: this is a writing blog, my main blog is elinema.tumblr.com


i’d like to think that early mornings are still mine
when the kitchen’s empty and the tea stopped burning the
tip of my tongue like the cigarette’s taste i’m
too embarrassed to take your mother’s name in vain with

the uneasy silence when all of your friends have left the house
right before the weight of sunrise cracks through the walls,
the nighttime closes in on you for every day and
reaching out for nothing more than stifled kisses at your door

i wonder left behind two dark-eyed courtains of morning crumbs if
someone ever was to steal that lazy smile of yours
lingering mem’ries of dreamy places should rather not be left
but lived, underneath two dozen piles of dusty pillows

i close my eyes,
‘cause anyhow or anytime
early mornings
are still mine.

I keep waking up at night just to tell my ceiling that I don’t care, but really it’s the only thing I ever do. I can never quite figure if you like the whole of me or just bits. Is it me, or the idea of me? If I told you to leave, would you do it? Because I always sometimes do and say the opposite of what I really want to, just to see if people know me at all, and we have both been bragging about how well we know each other, but for some reason I don’t.

Along my ankles you tell me like the worst of teachers to repeat the wrong lines after you, but I know for fact that you matter so much that I don’t think the world could properly function without you. And maybe, just maybe, this is all a little tiny bit too much for any living person to bear, that’s why I wouldn’t blame you if you walked right out the door anytime soon, but you can’t blame me when I can’t help carving it into my skin just about five thousand times, once for every mile inbetween us:  don’t.

dearly

Some days I just want to kiss you. Those days happen so suddenly that I almost always fall out of my bed. And I almost always, but never really do kiss you. And I keep thinking to myself, secretly,

“someday, maybe, hopefully, eventually”

But lips sewn shut, the wind never does as he’s told, and all the whispers in the world could get lost over a sea of salt. Kiss me. No, do not lie to me. Lie with me. I know you are just a ghost. Limbs made of glass, I can see right through your sleeve. And I know you cannot reach the other side, but please, please do kiss me.

One word, my love, I will keep it locked in a jar of freedom. I will look at you and your word forever, and then again in seven years, when I might come to breathe, breathe again, and think to someone but myself that:

“someday, maybe, hopefully, eventually”

And I dare say that answer will always be the same.

I cannot tell you how many times I have left my window open, as if giving in to a childish belief that you would fly right in and through it to kiss me good night.

I wish I didn’t have to tell you what she has become. But I do. Limbs, a corpse you keep dragging around, with that rope tight around her chest, she cannot move to stop from drowning in that drought. The more she ask herself why, the less she knows.

Truth is, I hate everything she’s become since that day, and I mean on the inside, and I don’t know if I can forgive her or you or anybody and I don’t know how to fix anything either, and I don’t want you to be the one to, because sometimes you seem to ruin everything related to her.

It’s not always like this, only when you look. But right now she’s slowly getting to a point where she can’t blame the weather for her mood anymore, and she’s caving in every single time she sees people she loves trying to cheer her up and she wants to be happy for them. tomorrow will be better. tomorrow will be better. tomorrow will be better.

 i’m sorry i think about stuff like that, especially at 4am but i am in the here and i can’t sleep and even when you come home from there i’m still the one who has to deal with all of this.

i guess by then i will just have to decide to forget it all and pretend it never happened. i wish i didn’t have to. i know neither of us can change things. this is not really much of a reproach, don’t take it that way.
and please let me. i need to write to breathe, don’t take this away from me.

in the end it all happened the way you wanted it to
and what am i but an audience to a play i auditioned for, willingly
maybe i am part of a literary generation that dreamt too much of
other worlds and spaces between your fingers, not to ask what if

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