The woman
in the wrinkled teal scrubs and dripping mascara talks to me through whispers cascading through the ether on their own heroes journey. The whispers, themselves alive just trying to find their way home between my arms and into my heart so they can finally speak and sing the harmony my desperate ears and wandering mind only now, years later would know as the birth of love.
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Before
I'm not sure what there was but it most certainly wasn't love, wasn't burning for every waking moment to become an indestructible memory, wasn't the ecstasy the guessing the utter and complete unraveling, wasn't the mana that would revive me, then kill me and birth me to bleed again, wasn't the nights spent wondering how could this have manifest, wasn't the car rides wearing water when all I had were sobs and tears, wasn't' the morning you said yes before you ever knew my name for "before" was meant so I could love you when you came. |
PoetryBecause all that science just gets old after a while. Archives
October 2019
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