It’s humid and sticky here, something I haven’t experienced in more than nine months. Every step I take is like moving through an endless pool of water in the air, every breath a choke. Sweat, drips, drops, stains. Stomach rumbling and legs spread apart to try and feel as much of the chilled sheets as possible. An ugly temperature with ugly noises and ugly thoughts to match. I’m damp.
We Like Things! But Mostly we Reblog them...
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Are you still stuck for ideas for National Novel Writing Month? Or are you working on a novel at a more...
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your lips taste of the
peanut m&m’s straight from the jar
and of drunken promises
in the dead of night.
our eyelids are shut
and our eyelashes... -
Birthday
I wonder if this is how my father felt when he turned 20.
Did he have the same thoughts dwelling his mind?
I want to ask him,
What does it... -
I dreamt about poetry
I dreamt about poetry
it was just you and me.
Dancing to the metered beats—
molding similes over
chocolate treats—walking
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I go through nights...
I go through nights where I can listen to one song over and over again, simply because the melody makes me think of your hands...
