Limerence Is A Word I Have Been Looking For For A Long Time.

Despite how open, peaceful, and loving you attempt to be, people can only meet you as deeply as they’ve met themselves.

Matt Kahn

Ink blue skies smudge warmly the glow of the crescent moon,

Alone and hungry I haunt the night, revelling

in the Presence of an ever growing

Darkness, without and within.

The trees whispered approval in unison, as I watched

Wood pixies weave their ephemeral lace

to throw over the red carnation that stands

frozen in a ray of thwarted sunshine. Tell me, darling,

Will you not step out of the lane etched in stone?

Footfalls, wearied and cautious, along pathways treaded

by spectres once under the delusion of eternity,

A flaming hand reaches out to gently catch hold of your errant spirit,

In the daze of the ember’s flicker, stumbling I walk

Into the depths of nature’s winding heart.

Indigo roses, idyllic nights and stolen almosts’.

Winds of Hy-brasil fondle softly the body

stretched on the grave of the buried gods of music

and forlorn hands over the field of forget-me-nots,

held lovingly at the chasm’s precipice.

Forget your thorns, mon amour,

and you’ll see why you mustn’t gather dreams—loves—

that have been left to get lost and embedded

in crevasses between thwarted desire and the wistfulness of

a childhood unspoken. Your wandering eyes on the evening star

and your tired hands in my reluctant hold.

And for once the night isn’t marred by children entwining

and entangling her silent melody with their laughter.

.

.

.

…

the soft courage and freedom that darkness brings

A shade of green, the colour of a mid-July swimming pool by the sea at sunset, the colour of lush forests, soothing, comforting, yet so intense a shadow just beneath the surface, lurking fleetingly by the corners, somehow synonymous with the gradual lavender that covers the sky at dawn.

who needs a social life when you have followers who don’t talk to you and you run a blog no one cares about

Nights in Winter Smell Pretty Great

I got a shivering hand and wet

Hugs from the clothes still hung

On the wind-up clothesline.

And it's night under the lamps,

And the moths are beating

Themselves up against the stars.

Three verses and I've run out of smoke.

Three verses and it still ain't been told.

We're tripping over each other,

Waiting for the other all the time

To ask for a light and to dig in.

There's not enough air for crickets

To bite into, so the chill bites into them

And me, always me. Watching

Them live from the window.

Yesterday evening they cut a cake

And someone brought a wreath.

It bled into the white-washed walls

Like my month would for some days,

And the baby was there when

The plates crashed and the sobs broke

After the party curled up to leave.

See, it unrolls like a film or a die

With the edges cut lose from hinges.

Tell me a number, gypsy, and I'll tell you

Why I would still see you snaked into it.

In the crook of seven, in the curve of two,

And a laced soixante neuf printed with

Brilliant blue - the sodium pricks

Like chalk in eyes when you close them

And an ultramarine demon is the halo I have

Beside me when I walk the path that

Is never there at daytime. Even though

Little squirrels have left mud-paw prints,

I doubt they trod the ground alive.

Tell me again, a line this time and I

Will roll it up and give you a light -

The smoke will incense the moon

So eat it up dear, served with the basalt

Hanging over the ravine.

I thought I could go through it like one

Slips to the bottom of a cumulonimbus.

And eventually there will be the earth,

Ready to take your bones and skin

And swallow you whole, as if they'd been

Starved of the seed a lover plants

To carve up another Matryoshka doll.

Empty to the very last case and cold

Where the tired paint flaked off.

Tell me a word and I will make a cloud

In the night with your breath.

- pollosky-in-blue

smokeinsilence / sightofsea / young love by bts / nizar qabbani / abeba birhane / the waves by virginia woolf / franz kafka letters to milena / ratsandlilies.art / the butterflys burden by mahmoud darwish / underneath the stars by mariah carey

Frosted glass between rain and life

I run my hand through the same old withered branches,

Drenched in the same old tired rain,

Far away the sunset harbours the lost gold of

Odysseys gone by, and if the wind were to hide

Within it some unremembered glow from the land

Of unknown secrets, the evening will gently

Whisk away the covers of the coquette,

And reveal to us a maiden under the bent willow,

Sweet as the apples from the orchards where our dreams

Were buried. She will beckon for the children

To gather around the fire and tell them the story

Of Zerah and Zulamith, whilst we twist the

Slender branches of the cherry tree into a throne

Fit for the brides of heaven to recline on,

Place at the altar a wreath of dead roses,

And hope that the silent fragrance borne to the shore

Is enough for the sea to give up the child

She drew to her heart in death’s storm.

…

And dare I tag anyone? @pollosky-in-blue perhaps you’ll like the story?

In the incomprehensible maze of personhood, somewhere in me there is a tangle whose causal knot is you.