find your tongue

mikesifeldeen @ 2007-09-02T12:14:00

2007-09-02T18:14:49Z

To See Your Face

I knew you would be here; a trail of grace followed you like thread trailing needle. I pursued the dying beams of daylight to beat the dusk, before the grips of night found purchase on the expectant soil, and prayed the sun would divine the reason behind my haste: I needed to know you were there. Before the deafening darkness made chase, I needed to see your face.

mikesifeldeen @ 2007-09-02T11:51:00

2007-09-02T17:51:08Z

Watching Rainstorms

You used to watch rainstorms. Not for the brilliant drops of water glistening off the windowpanes, and not for the unexpected flashes of lightning and thunder that sometimes rattled vases from their mantles or utensils in their drawers. No, you’d watch the rainstorms so you could run outside when it was over and observe the ripples in the newly-formed puddles on the street. The patterns and waves took on a life of their own and enveloped your malleable mind with welcome memories. It brought you back to the times when you were with her on the lake, your unobtrusive rowboat slowly rocking back and forth to the rhythms of the cool flowing water beneath you. Even when you weren’t looking up at the pristine sky, the sun met your eyes through hers, it’s reflection off the lake dull in comparison...

mikesifeldeen @ 2007-09-02T11:49:00

2007-09-02T17:50:00Z

Adrienne

I sometimes pretend you're a flower. Wearing sunshine as your smile, wrapped up in a shawl of shade, and woven throughout the weakest parts of me, you wrap any wound imaginable with an agile stem and a perfectly-placed embrace. The splash of rain upon your face lets you constantly breach the barrier of the retreating night sky. But instead, you stay here with me, grounded in the rich earth. Calla lilies sway in the distance, bending but never breaking to a near-imperceptible breeze. The wind serves as a slight and subtle reminder, a cocoon bringing fresh memories and blank slates begging to be written upon. And on them I will write of how I sometimes pretend you're a flower, wearing sunlight as your smile, and how it fits you perfectly.

mikesifeldeen @ 2007-09-02T11:46:00

2007-09-02T17:48:34Z

No One Cares About The Bullet

Not quite wanting to rise yet not wanting to set, vacant eyes make room for indifferent stares. Like the way the light reflects off your brow, almost as if it's trying to get back to it's source as quickly as possible. Or maybe it's just too ironic: the perfect lighting of a dark mind. But you'll sell me out. And walls will rupture from the inside out. If only believe could be spelt without the lie. All the connections, all the connective tissue in the world, it couldn't hold me together now. Clots will dance inside my veins, and paint your palms that pasty white. The contrast of crimson could be seen from your core, but no one cares about the bullet.

mikesifeldeen @ 2007-09-02T11:43:00

2007-09-02T17:45:41Z

Caprice

Stay here and mend throats with me, our thumbs like buttons, their necks like eyelets. We'll weave the prettiest of patterns into their insensate bodies. Oh, won't it be like old times... Back in the days when we were made of sandstone and sufferance, and when evening breezes laid waste to our inhibitions. But we never had such delicate fabrics back then, the kinds that would tear at the slightest hint of ecstasy. Caprices, wandering eyes... wandering... but always fixed at a center point. We were the center point. Like our needles and threads that never let us down. In one side and out the other, but always holding fast. Their wounds may watch us from a distance, but they trace their past back to the knot, back to the center point. We were the center point.