He made me think hard about the passage of time. Again, this piece is no love letter more than it is not coming from a place of hurt.
The words that he says to me tasted like fine wine: cherries picked in the ancient summers by people no longer around,
lovingly put into the care of time to be softly nurtured.
Had it felt like forever for you to get here?
Forever, I will think of the histories that it had distilled into it, to intoxicate me with every spill
and how constant yet maturing and growing one could be.
I marvelled so fondly of the loveliness of your being.
Past tense.
To be defined by the hints of your puzzle pieces, chartreuse.
The sweet citrus smell of longing that comes with the comfortability I lost in translation, aren't every love is defined by the touch of skin and trails of each of our senses?
The floating, heavy, overwhelming musk of rain that suffocates two creatures in this closed space; creating carbon dioxide waves, hazy as it wrecks our nerves with every shy brush of our fingers.
Warmest colour.
I could have mistaken it to be a mason jar, and we haven't seen lights for countless millennia.
Warmest colour.
I could have mistaken it to be a mason jar, and we haven't seen lights for countless millennia.
I wanted the ferns of the hidden hill to curl into my skin, for it to grow on each and every trail of you that you left on my skin so I could see how much of it is growing inside of me.
Just so I can rip it by its roots.
Aren't love the most comical fermentation there is?
Many fruits and roots could be loved by leaving it in the hands of time.
Yet, I guess I loved in ways that doesn't make people want to stay.
Time eludes me and it hurts me so brutally that it is reflected in my word-spills.
The hint of bitterness, the kind that burns your tongue just a little bit,
tarragon, peppercorn, viscocity of bleeds.
