[my.] if your eyes were oceans, they were the ones that had dried up. just an empty abyss holding the feeling of a lost memory. a remnant of something you can almost remember. [dear.] your lips were always feathered moth wings against my eyelids. fluttering and sacred, afraid. no touch was sweeter than the one which brought all your fears to the surface. [you.] your hands told me that you would always love me. but they also trembled a lot. [are.] your breath was the honey-sweet air of the night, gently stirring the hairs on the back of my neck as you held me ever close. it was the feeling of joy and sadness. of good things that wouldn't last. [so.] your galaxy is written in stars across your cheeks. every one is a sun, i told you. but you always said that your stars spoke of misfortune in your future. [cliche.] your whispers are of living forever, but your words speak of life is too short. while you promise you'll be with me forever, i still feel you fading away. [and that's alright with me.] |
Comments
i just think for a while now people are saying too many things are cliche.
and i was thinking about joining, but i'm not really a contest person. i only write when i can, and i hardly am able to conform to a theme.
--
love is not a victory march; it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.
--
" ...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
--
" ...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
Previous Page123Next Page