75 to 79 of 100

75

I absolutely adore alliteration.

76

Imagine
A winter’s afternoon
Wickedly, crisply cold
Sun unafraid shining
Through the window
To where we lay
Tangled and still
Eyes closed, wide awake
Savouring every silent second

Save our breathing

Save the moving of the second hand on the clock on the wall staring over us watching us marking each beautiful moment but the kind you find in an hourglass

Save for the soft dull buzz of the refrigerator

In a very small room
For a very short while

Heh
Tick
bzzzzzz

76

The truth of the matter is
I’m deathly afraid
And the low sense of self worth
For whatever reason it exists
Never goes away
It is simply kept at bay by
Really good coping mechanisms
So you’d never guess
And they’re always shocked
And it’s sad to say
But I’m really relieved
By fellow flaws
This inner dialogue
Doesn’t stop
Goes on and on and on
And I keep it to myself

How my confidence gets knocked so easily!
And the only way to cope by pretending I don’t care?
That it is not important to me when it is?

And when it’s not, I shine!
They fall at my feet
And when it is, I dull and stumble
And they wonder where the breezy, beautiful girl that they met went
And truthfully,

So do I.

77

A mother without a child
A wife without a man
Armed with a hopelessly hopeful heart
I stand

On dry, crumbling Earth
Crust and dust and wind at the edge of the falaise
And then again with the rain
Umbrella in hand without its vinyl skin

Sunburnt and drenched
Regard, blissful girl grasping!
Parched and soaked, 
Behold, wet, wistful wench!

78

Your hands on my hips
Your lips on my thighs
The gorgeous what ifs
The non-existent why’s 

It’s good that we fucked
Explored
Answered questions
Settled scores

From long before us
Deficits 
I create a thousand stories 
Of which only one exists

Fingertips and bandwidth
Soft lips and hands’ breadth 
That runaway train
No brakes, like this brain

Hallelujah the haggard halo
That vibrates with our laughter
And your soft cheek pressed to mine
Still so worth the awkward after

What we did is beautiful
And in the morning on our bed
There were no clothes laid out for us to wear
So like in dreams we went out naked

You held my cold hand
Kissed my trembling fingers
As I tried on cloaks of
Liquor, piss and vinegar

Handsome stranger
Sweet, sweet friend
Let us fuck on the thirteenth floor
Again, again, again.

79

Glory be the morning
Baudelaire and breakfast
Windy and wistful
This stumbled upon empty café
Coffee and clarity
These magical, melancholic moments
The chair across from me peacefully perfectly purposefully thankfully empty
This is the beautifully bewitched time of day where loneliness and his cruel consorts have never trespassed.

 

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À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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