The seaweed of my morning hair lay splayed out in your direction.
Buried under layers of wool and tattered cotton,
polished skin dreamt of your embrace.
Your muffled breathing kept the responsibility of the day at arm’s length.
The static from your arms coursed through me.
It was humming in my veins as I breathed you in.
I was born in a city of flashing lights and discord.
I screamed out love songs from the ends of my fingertips.
And you can call this what you want…
Your song is never ending.
Time cannot lessen the calm in your voice,
the confessions in your lips or the child hiding in your laughter.
I cannot be returned.
So I’ll keep listening to the pulse of this Sunday afternoon.
So I’ll keep listening to the pulse of this Sunday afternoon.
The heart is hard to translate.
I’m going to lose my mind between the pages of a journal.
Every gesture recorded in a trail of fascination.
i love the "seaweed of my morning hair" image. it's such a perfect description, and such a pretty one, at that. I also love the "pulse of this Sunday afternoon" - so lazy and soft and sweet.
ReplyDeletethat common thread of the pulsing, humming, breathing, beating movements is so subtle and perfect. brilliant. :)