tempest and tranquility @bforbonhomie - Tumblr Blog

weltenwellen

May Sarton, The House by the Sea

inanotherunivrse

in another universe we have more time together

the-ankush-says-deactivated2023

E. E SCOTT

weltenwellen

E.E. Cummings, Complete Poems, 1904-1962

he put flowers in her hair.

i lay on his chest and hum the tune of his heartbeat.

his bracelet lies on my bedside table and his hand grazes my hip.

but he put flowers in her hair.

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when i speak of you in rage, it is the softest form.

when i cry and curse and call your name, i wait like a child for you to pick me up and hold me close.

when i fall silent, it is while i imagine your hands in my hair counting the reasons why you loved me.

when i stumble home drunk-minded to temporarily intertwine meaninglessly with another,

i remember how you’d count and kiss my scars,

run your thumb across my thigh like a painter perfecting his piece,

pushing chest to chest beseeching my soul to elope with yours and radiate a powerful warmth no unfortunate star could attempt to recreate.

but all i do is speak in rage, cry and curse and call for you.

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i fold like origami.

my beautiful figurine-like poise is made on crooked and forced impressions designed over time so that when needed, i become the shape or style or genre or fantasy of what he desires the most.

i will change, to be what he needs.

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i once found my soul intertwined with yours.

it started when you brushed my hand with yours at an attempt to find a champagne glass.

then the time of skin to skin,

summer-sun down photographs,

freckled cheeks with golden-flecked eyes,

meetings with friends and “let’s do this soon”,

sand, shells, shade and shared warmth,

white sheets with interlocking hearts,

messed up curls from engine whirls,

rain-soaked runs to nose-tip kisses,

ring promises, future grasps, brick-laying each memory to its desired cemented place,

weary minds fall together into a resting place of peace and dreams.

only to be woken out of time and out of place harshly grasping at the empty space next to me,

there’s no “mine” anymore.

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something born of the july heat will never survive the september showers, october dusk, november gale nor the december frost

love is the seed that blossoms the forrest but the flint that burns the trees to cinders

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our never-land became my

“…never-mind”

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celtic-cryptid

Inspired by @bforbonhomie's poem

The Cottage.

I remember once being told stories of a house called 'The Cottage' that was filled with familial warmth and fond memory.

I remember that house felt safe, how the kitchen smelt of fresh made lasagna and the draws were filled with pennies.

I remember a swing built onto the giant apple tree and the rock goblin lay amongst the bushes. Hidden chocolates atop the wardrobe and pillow forts in front of the TV.

I remember the pain as the smell of lasagna faded, when the heights of everyone who grew up within these walls got washed away and the draw ran out of pennies.

I remember it all, but it's gone now never a place for me to return too, little more than a faded memory and an ache deep in my bones at the white paint covering the brick you so lovingly placed.

i could walk through your house blind;

i know every corner,

scratch of paint and creaking wooden flooring.

but i am cursed to claw at the memory while it fades.

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your ignorance

protrudes the very

fabric of

my

existence.

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i retract from our embrace to find claw marks where my fingers lay;