Sunday MorningSilence,it is the wind tapping his nearby window.I feel the rustle of the sheets,warm body heat dancing on my thighs.The alarm won't sound for another hour.Risen sun,late starts are our sunday ritual.Roll back over,enveloped in your scent.Would be my favourite moment,if not for the ones made before we fell asleep.Gentle breathing,we don't need to speak in raspy morning tones.Naked, comfortable,skin to skin never felt so routine.If pillows could talk,I know they'd say the dirtiest things.Love is this and this is love.Late starts are our sunday ritual.
DerealizationA world of black & white passing my eyesightTrapped in a movie, sealed with no endingA dreamlike state numbing my sensesDisconnected from my body, the worldLost in a different timeThe clock is tickingBut moving nowhereReality is slipping into an ocean of tarChronic nightmare..When will I wake up?
DrowningThe flood gates have opened.I am drowning in a sea of quandary.I am grounded beneath the surface.I am being dragged by the aggressive current.I am fighting against it with everything I have, even though I know I will never win.It pulls me to a place far from where I have begun, I place I thought I would never be.Oh, what I would give to breath smoothly again, for oxygen to fill my lungs.I am frightened as I begin to feel myself fade away, losing my senses.I slowly lose consciousness, and vanish into the depths of the sea.
theShe slowly curved our insides to a mass of empty breaths, and when finally we would exhale and exhale, fight and desperately seek meaning in our wispy, airy contractions, nothing would come of them. A different way of saying: she had a death in me. Her hair, of red pine and willow leaves in autumn would sit lightly on her pale skin and oh, small shivers would stand still against my spine hurry.Her knees were colourless; lines threw their bones into an awkward shape of round, what would normally fit wholly unusual, between her slender branches of legs and arms. Eyes, what could anything be said of them save for their lack of meaning? But yet, which could only entrance and bewilder. It was an illness that would only impale us, those, you and I - who could see the wonderment in such ordinary flesh. I cant quite think of the times Ivedreamed you whole.