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Literature Text
i recognized your handwriting even better than i recognized my own. it started out straight, then ran down diagonally down the page, and no letter looked the same, but i loved it. it reminded me of playing football in the rain and snuggling on the couch on cold nights, watching movies we weren't really watching, and meeting under that ugly old tree in the park so we could sit and breathe together.
it reminded me of when you looked up from your journal and poked my forehead with your pencil and said, "you're beautiful, you know that?"
x
you loved to write things. you loved to write on things. you would trace your finger in puddles, and read aloud what you were writing in the water. (i would even find little notes and random thoughts written in my books and on post-its.) you would dip your finger in red paint (that eerily reminded me of blood), and marked words on my ribcage, my arms, my spine.
you wrote about what you dreamt about last night, and what your favourite color was that day, and how much you loved me and how much i loved you.
but you also wrote about nightmares and how i looked lovely with your blood colored finger prints all over my skin.
x
i searched for your forest green, broken glass eyes one day, and i couldn't find them. i went back to that ugly old tree in the park and found you there, staring at me. those weren't the eyes i had been looking for, i remembered thinking. those eyes were empty.
you held out a wrinkled, folded up piece of paper to me, and as soon as my finger tips touched it, you turned around
and
walked away.
and the paper fell to the ground because
you never let me grasp it before you disappeared.
x
i had left it on my desk and read a sentence a day, savouring your handwriting with my eyes so i could pretend you were still here
and the last word written was also the word i thought of
when i realized that you only wrote of things you were afraid to say
"gone."
it reminded me of when you looked up from your journal and poked my forehead with your pencil and said, "you're beautiful, you know that?"
x
you loved to write things. you loved to write on things. you would trace your finger in puddles, and read aloud what you were writing in the water. (i would even find little notes and random thoughts written in my books and on post-its.) you would dip your finger in red paint (that eerily reminded me of blood), and marked words on my ribcage, my arms, my spine.
you wrote about what you dreamt about last night, and what your favourite color was that day, and how much you loved me and how much i loved you.
but you also wrote about nightmares and how i looked lovely with your blood colored finger prints all over my skin.
x
i searched for your forest green, broken glass eyes one day, and i couldn't find them. i went back to that ugly old tree in the park and found you there, staring at me. those weren't the eyes i had been looking for, i remembered thinking. those eyes were empty.
you held out a wrinkled, folded up piece of paper to me, and as soon as my finger tips touched it, you turned around
and
walked away.
and the paper fell to the ground because
you never let me grasp it before you disappeared.
x
i had left it on my desk and read a sentence a day, savouring your handwriting with my eyes so i could pretend you were still here
and the last word written was also the word i thought of
when i realized that you only wrote of things you were afraid to say
"gone."
Literature
a letter.
dear you,
i've bled over this for long enough.
sincerely, me.
Literature
fair grading.
rain rain you went away
come back and flush me down the drain.
i sat in the middle of the road and my mind's in a drought
i've got the carcasses of words baking in harsh artificial light within me.
[i slur my words, but don't think it's because i've been drinking
i just don't know how to bring myself to say anything to you.]
-
we're walking down the street, puddles lit by street lights.
there are rainbows in the cement cracks, and your words are sparkling with magic.
'this is where dreams live,' you tell me.
'this is where dreams live.'
[if this is a dream, then i must be snow white, and not even your kiss can wake me up.]
-
twin
Literature
letter clutter
Dear you-
Can I ask you a question? Just one. Are you always so scattered and detached, or is just the sounds of the violin door hinges that make it seem like you still have not found that forever-missing sock and so instead are letting your bare foot go cold.
Am I always so curious that I need an answer to every question that is unrelated to my personal life and all the cross sections or do I just find knowing how to solve a Rubik's cube strangely satisfying.
I need your opinion about something. Do you think if I carry on making stars with every footstep I take, someone might find them, and follow them to the moon, even though I am still
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This is incredibly beautiful.