Undiscoveredwings

she is finely wired and defined. she likes opposites and nuances in her life but too much of a good thing worries her and she cannot read in the dark without wishing she was somewhere else and that her parents had never met or that autumn would not keep her waiting. men cannot speak when they first see her pass a window and they adore how she refuses to ride on trains or eat oranges without having her best shoes on. she likes their compliments and how the morning smells like brown paper after it rains and the steam that crinkles out of paper cups full of coffee. but she doesn't smile, because she is afraid that

When the darkness is no longer enough for you, you will know it is time. I wonder will you come find me then and let me lay my hands upon the ground beneath you and search for my warmth and the words we both knew were bound to slip away because they felt too late. I never spoke your language although we have the same walk and the color of your eyes was my childhood. I could not dream like you or see how your hands made things innocent because I slipped through a world darkly when you were not looking and you did not call me home. You were my distance and small words became safer but you never knew how I ached to tak

In his head he's Baudelaire, in a dark silk suit and hand crafted boots of butter suede, and he's sitting in a cafe with leaves swirling around his feet, waiting for the girl of his dreams to drop from the bright blue morning and bloom under a red umbrella. He will whisper crimes and confess thoughts of chaos as she slowly pulls off her gloves and pours too much wine in his glass and tries to imagine how he tastes under his shirt. He will write her a poem - something about flowers, on a napkin and tuck it into her sleeve and wish he was running his hands under her petticoats. She will smile and wet her lips with the t

I love how our clothes tell stories in the dark tall tales of battles left scattered on the carpet or ghosts sliding under the eaves to prickle your skin like braille under my fingers and how they play games like hide and seek chasing skin over sheets and blankets and how your buttons disappear under my command like toy soldiers off to war tagging our shadows across the floor and into the corners of each other where the moon spills us out in little pieces and the stars tumble - silver clad jacks through our fingers.

He found you in the water, floating nonchalant and cool, a chip out of your pretty heart. You were humming some old song and weaving daisies in a chain to tie around your throat and pull you under. You said ravens had stolen your eyes and the tears you left on his shirt smelled suspiciously like rain; but his coat felt warm around your shoulders and your wet skin reminded him of swans breaking the dark lake their slender throats snapping unearthly and white like the pallor of those daisies left unpetalled in his hands...

This sweet little backwater you called home never wanted us. We were not so much a name as a complaint the rude intercourse of questions and laundry left distilling on the line along with the hide and seek of neighbors in our wake. They wouldn't let us be enough said we were crude and the grist of our marriage too strange a tale for covered dishes or county fairs our love too remote a road for families to travel on alone. So we will pack up our wagon once again set the pots out to dry and wonder who will feed the cat. We will cancel the milk and mail too much kindness in one day. For leaving is a simple thing a we

Morning tea comes too soon with a slap of newsprint at my door while twenty floors below some sweet young thing promises the end of the world on a postcard. If these walls could talk I would probably weep because the paint has not been seen in years and covers nothing. My pillow is a thin buffer against the noise next door, and down the hall I can hear the maid flick her ashes down the laundry chute, slipping the matches into her bra and praying the guy in 113 did not dream of her again all over his sheets. My blanket weighs a ton and the elevator grinding to a halt is my last stab at anything rational. This must

She speaks from the hip - noun sharp and raw as Tuesday, her shoulders telling the floor what to do as her shadow drains out the light and leaves his mouth dry. He likes her whiskey lips - could fall in love with the gravel of her smile as she tells him there is no one else in the whole wild world who can own her skin like he does. She tries on his verbs, runs them up her legs like stockings gartered by his breath, and murmurs he is a perfect fit. And his voice, when she grasps it with her thighs, curls up deep inside her somewhere, and blooms like sudden poetry.

It's out of my hands now - all your death wishes and final requests for mutiny, crated like too many eggs or china gone cold. You never wanted a blindfold, said that way you couldn't see God coming, and when I offered to put the cigarette up to your lips one last time I could feel something wet on your skirt. But you let me kiss those bound wrists, your beautiful vague thoughts resting against my chest, your brow puckerd raw and palms ruddy like the Photinia bushes we burried the cat under one Christmas morning. And when you slipped into that chair, so soft and clean, hands folded like a Joan, I could almost see you

Sail on, little wing, with starlings in your pockets and that turned up smile below your navel - glorious bud of mischief. Don't you know God made this day just for you? The grass begs for your knees to roll and the palms of your hands to stroke the vivid green, and the sky welcomes you like Calypso into my waiting arms Come put those petals on my face like only you know how to do and make me hum. We are burning daylight - glorious blisters on my toes and right below my beltline where your sun broke promise and set my spine singing.