Thursday 13 March 2014
the sometimes language of morning
we sleep between the layers of each day and awake to the birth of it's unfolding colours. with my pillow imprinted with a night time's worth of dreams i perform these early morning rituals like a duvet stealing star taking up more space than is fair, although you make no attempt to make me smaller... one of the reasons i love you. with sleepy eyes you slowly turn yourself into the idea whilst i quietly overflow. feed me your grace and guts and suspend your disbelief from my halo. together we are draped in memories worn like amulets. as for truths i can only be sure of mine with their constant fluid edges. quietly i will you to wrap your fingers around my wish bone and pull. with both hands take what you asked for and fear not the quaking earth. stand your ground and hold yourself up to the sun. show it how to burn. set sail in your boat of bones and gently roll me over. warm me with the flames cupped in the palm of your hands and then kiss me like you mean it...
"where you are tender, you speak your plural." ~ from 'a lover's discourse: fragments' by roland barthes
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
4 comments:
This is so beautiful, such a lovely writer, you are x
Ah, beautiful. I had not been here for a long time . . . but neither had you yourself it seems. So glad to see something new, and re-read the older.
gorgeous.xx
"We'll live Romance, not talk it. We'll show the grey unbelieving age, we'll teach the whole damned World, that there's a better Heaven than the pale serene Anglican windless harmonium-buzzing Eternity of the Christians. A Heaven in Time, now and for ever, ending for each, staying for all, a Heaven of Laughter and Bodies and Flowers and Love and People and Sun and Wind, in the only place we know or care for, ON EARTH."
Rupert Brooke, letter to Jacques Raverat, 1909
Post a Comment