When Words Meet Heartbeats

Worked on TSH a bit yesterday, and I’m rather in love with this tidbit, so I thought I’d share:

Joe collapsed onto the sofa on the left-hand side, slouching instantly, his shoulders slumping as his head lolled back against the seat. He seemed so small wrapped up in all the lavishness, like he didn’t quite fit. It was a lifestyle he’d once grown quite accustomed to as a younger man, I imagined—with a career like his, it was inevitable—but I gathered by the way he’d been living that it had probably been a while since he’d taken full advantage of it.

Given everything I knew about him, I had a feeling the lifestyle was one he’d never worn very comfortably. But the extravagance, in his later years, seemed to fit him like a sweater two sizes too big.

likeawritingdesk:

lover,

it is true that i really loved you
though you vanished
like honey in hot water

and you taste like cinnamon on my lips,
leaving a spice in my breath

you had maps of old cities in your skin
the ruins of forgotten lands in your knuckles

skeletons of ferns lining
the future behind your eyelids

(via ksewell)

Dear,

inertiatic:

I swear that I could pick
the way your skin tastes in the shower

out of an entire field of moonflowers
all standing like tiny trees beside our barefeet

just wanting to be near us
while the summer wind swirls in a way only it can

as quiet as the candle burning
making silhouettes of these words and fingertips

their shadows stretching across your shoulders and thighs
the shadows that are filled to the brim with delicate rainclouds

aching to be the shower of another poem
and of course,

I’d know that taste anywhere.

Love, 

likeawritingdesk:

i need to write a poem because i have
forgotten what it feels like to
hear:

you have taken all my words away,
you with your ocean eyes,
i don’t know how to map you.

could i press my ear up to you, and 
would i hear the Sea?

(via ksewell)

and you.

on foolish nights, I wish for this:
the curl of your fingers around my wrist
and the taste of starshine on your lips
and November dancing in your eyes
a spark, a shift, the flecks
of honey flourishing mid-waltz
and all a hue of the 21st
the color of an afternoon
a setting sun
a startling chill
a solid arm around my waist
and you. 

-m.