#hheathcliff

[driftlight]

i miss the plush of your lips:  soft to touch,  and sweet to kiss.

[hinatashoyyo]

“What’s wrong little red?”/ You breathe deep. Think hard about  not dying in the woods somewhere./You talk fast, sweat beading at your back, tongue and teeth pressed to throat. /“I don’t know.” You swallow. “Everything.”    “Head or heart: which is prone to collapse?”/ You piece together a smile. Think about writing an essay on how you are head and he is heart and you have both been breaking./ He is brother, blood to your body./ You fidget as the question sits: you want to ask her about saving.  She asks you what is feral?/ "Wildness that you could have been killed by.“/ You say, deciding to hesitate. You would have liked to be ghost so as to have been less of body/ but not as much than you would have liked her to have been/ you wanted a more tangible haunting/ something more than your father breaking.  "What do you dream?”/  hospital visits/girls with no eyes / a bathtub of hair/ eating well beyond full/your body breaking/ a wolf howling as you run/ you trust him and he kills you/ old memories;;/ you reach out too late and he burns/ before finally, you wake in arms knotted for safe-keeping./Your tongue sticks. “I don’t.” Finally you answer, bleeding, soft.

For Molly @bitlinski  

inspired by  x

[driftlight]

I have love for the many months behind us:   blurred and blended  into a canvas of oils. the blues and the greens,  even the sickly yellows.  I love it as I love you  even as I could not remember  it all; even as it writes itself anew  in recall.  even as I did not yet know  what we would learn,  and what these  memories would mean. I have love for the tears and  smiles yet to be in front of us the saplings growing  in the water spilled soil.  See? I am feeding and watering  it. My hands are dirty, and  one of my nails have split.  I am still learning the difference  between flowers and weeds.  And that maybe a weed is not  a weed except where it has been unwelcomely placed.  The sun is hot and I am sticky  with sweat.  I breathe as I sit in the work:  A project ever growing unfinished.

[driftlight]

some words live as faeries,  dancing amongst fair folk;  bright, so bright,  skimming ember tongues,  flashing red amongst the coals:  they love, just love, just love to caress, to play, to laugh for to them, the fire is just a game,  and but one breath can puff them alight  again. and every now and then,  they bewitch a note, a song, a giggle,  with a flame lick of thrill some nights so strong  it never, no never goes.

[driftlight]

"You're too loud,"  ah  but pressed in small i won't  take too much.  i'll do my best  to keep your arms empty and the suitcase  light.   "Ah, well, I guess that's fair."  well really, i'd like to dampen my thoughts into the smallest of clouds; but they all like to rage a storm.  when tired i run till abstract:  i think i'd float without something heavy to touch.  i hope to exhaust  into something else;  perhaps a bird, or some tender smoke; to make a mirror out of  whatever they wanted to see.

[driftlight]

Goodnight. The days bleed til  There's blood in the mouth.

[driftlight]

she hasnt a sharp mouth,  or twisted teeth of deceit but i do not trust her sand shoulders  the erosion of her thighs; her unsteady gait like the sea, she wanders far and  arrives late.  she cannot hold her head above the waves;  best to leave her to her drowning fate.  but  the sand is soft through my fingers,  and i can see that everyday she grows more mountain.  everyday she learns her substance.  she is grappling roots to grow;  her eyes reflect a tree.  as i kick my legs and pull her onto shore; now warm and not as cold and tired  she blossoms before me.

[driftlight]

Wait. The yolked moon Breathes uneasy In this closing light.