6 weeks
six weeks until I am not dependant on the weight
of a voice transcending through a speaker,
but dependant on the weight
of our palms, and rib cages and
lips crushing the depth of our bygones.
-b
I thought you were the sea but you were the wind all along
(Source: heavymuffintop, via drowningtheworld)
7 weeks.
I want to be
awoken in a sea
of sun streaming through
the linen that is not my own.
And paralyzed by the still
and startling perfection
that is your body cupping mine.
-b
i find myself
once again bound to the
vibration of attention.
The buzzing reminder
that I am still padlocked
to the skeletons I draped
behind my endless Profile
pictures of absurd happiness.
I am alert with sorrow as I slip
steadily into my old skin.
-b
Can we just talk about how sexy my boyfriend is? And why is he so far away from me again? Those curls. I die.
Lover, lifer, writer. Journalism student, and Vancouver freelancer. This is my personal blog with a lot of my own poetry and intimate entries. I am continuously inspired by successful, talented and innovative women, and I try to reflect that as much as possible. I hope you enjoy.
"Cento" Copyright © Andrew Brinker 2011.
