(no subject)
Ok, this is pretty scary for me...I don't usually show people my writing but that is something I am working on getting over. I posted my latest here and there is more of my other writing here: http://www.nbtsc.org/~newt/writing
Fingernails that haven't been bitten in 2 weeks because you were here. Quotation marks holding us together, pillow cases smoothing us out, and music lifting us up. Fumble, stumble over bra snaps and cigarette lighters. If I wore lipstick I'd leave a mark on your cheek-sexy and too much for your pale, taut skin-but I don't, so I'll write you a poem, and you can sleep on as I walk out. If you want to call it a love poem you can-if it makes the bittersweet nostalgia more so; if it helps releasing the tears; if it helps breathing when you wake up with dry lips. You can call it a love poem and you can call me your love and I will remember you as brown eyelashes lying softly on sleeping skin and the way you laughed at the bus stop yesterday. Puffing out crisp air in clouds and sometimes I saw things take form but before I could name them they evaporated into the clear air where memories tend to find company. Maybe I hold on to too much and maybe I let the wrong things go. Why do the memories rule and the dreams fade? What happened to winter-bus-stop-breath-smoke? What happened to dream-poem-hand-holding-summers-fading? What happened to our long strings of adjectives with lush vowels that only we understood? You know, we weren't ignorant. We were bliss. And our high was just as forbidden and so it satisfied our thirsty rebel streak. Where art thou, oh fiery comet-boy? Did you burn up or did you burn out? Where were the buckets of water? Where were the men in the red trucks? Where were the EMTs and policemen? Where was the fire extinguisher and who let you have those matches? Where were the people who were supposed to save precious, loved lives? Where were they? Where was I?