"She had wild-piano hands and turquoise-glitter eyes and sometimes, her long ivory tresses tangled over his cheeks in some semblance of Iloveyou at midnight but it always left him gasping, the weight of her touch. It always burned."
There were twenty-seven freckles
on the skin between her shoulder blades.
He used to line them into constellations in his free time:
The Big Dipper;
He called her Galaxy Girl
and swore she'd walk the moon someday.
he captured twenty-six fireflies for her
and she laughed
when he held up the jar
and told her she could find her way home with it.
She could light her way back to him.
He swore she'd be the first girl
he'd ever name a star for
and he'd call it Glacier to match her eyes
it was so much better than her real name.
He looks at the sky
through his telescope now
and wonders if she realizes he kept his promise.
Twenty-eight stars are dedicated to her
and her universe freckles.
He named them all Lizzie
and despite his long midnight talks
with the fireflies he always captures in his palms just for her,
he still can't bring her back to his world.
Wedding Bands--FFM Day 8In a dark, dank street corner coffee shop, cockroaches and small mice lay strewn across the checkerboard-tile floor. Abandoned cobwebs crept across the vaulted ceiling, shadows cloaking the peeling wallpaper. What used to smell of vanilla and fresh-baked scones now reeked of disinterest and mothballs.
Years ago, couples flocked to this shop on cold, blustery days for hot chocolate, espressos, and abstract poetry. But that was before, when love was still allowed. Before it was punishable by public hanging.
Deep in the shop, buried beneath neglect and dust, porcelain coffee cups clinked, breaking the silence. A lone black widow, hungry and hunting, curled her legs around a wedding band and hoisted herself back to her web, the ring in tow. The diamond glinted as a stray sliver of sun caught it, throwing a rainbow across the wall.
In the middle of the floor, a trapdoor--long forgotten--clicked open. Coughing, a man emerged, his suit a bright, garish flamingo pink and a little black
Colors of a Sunflower--C.Her name was Sunflower, but it didn't suit her; she had black hair and blacker eyes and ink-stained fingers. Everything about her was dark and shadowy. Sometimes she found herself envying anything with color - when she looked at the other girls with their sunlit smiles and strawberry lips, she started to ache.
His name was Kirk and it didn't matter that it didn't suit him because everyone knew him as Hamster. He spent his mornings peeling the sleep from his eyes; his afternoons were dedicated to deciphering the codes of a cheerleader's walk. He used to beg strangers to read his fortune in the dimples of his cheeks; his favorite line used to be, "So...can you see yourself with me in the near future? Please say that you do." Usually, he'd leave them breathless with his name on their minds and their numbers in his pocket. But her. He couldn't even get her to blink. She became his obsession. His Iwantsomethingmore tune.
She frowned at him from the bench she was sitting on. He
He Hates Her Phantom WaysHe left in the spring because he'd always been one for grandeur and he knew she'd look to her garden for company and besides, he'd never really liked the way she always smelled of dirt and lost souls. She had wild-piano hands and turquoise-glitter eyes and sometimes, her long ivory tresses tangled over his cheeks in some semblance of Iloveyou at midnight but it always left him gasping, the weight of her touch. It always burned. Her name was Ingrid, his on-the-side Indian girl, and she was more phantom than flesh, her smiles almost translucent under the twilight-twinged sky. Mostly, he left in the spring because that's when the wolves howled the loudest and he feared the ways Ingrid's eyes became haunted by the full moon and he hated the way he always looked to the dreamcatcher on her wall to save him, save her, just let them rest peacefully for once.
Ingrid was smoke in his lungs and vanilla on his tongue and he loved the way she screa
P.S. I love you is a collection of features of writers I love. All text is from the literature deviations linked. The visual thumbs are for decorative purposes to match the tone of the poet only. The features are purposefully posted in a random order. ♥