Thanks for all the lovely comments you guys... I'd thank you all individually, but, I am just not THAT good 
{edited to add}
THE BOY IS NOT GOING TO IRAQ !!!!!
and we have decided that we are going to get married in August (or sooner if certain things work out just right, but definitely in August if not sooner) come hell or high water.
back to NC I go...
WATERCOLOURS IN THE RAIN
The cats held a meeting,
The Tuesday that you left.
It was early,
Some were grumpy,
But they turned up nonetheless.
Don't ask me what was said there -
The minutes aren't to hand,
And I wondered
As I watched 'em,
Who they'd appointed their chairman.
They seemed to like the sun,
But rain was in the air,
And they cut it short at 7
When I noticed
You weren't there.
- - styled after Neruda's work in Cien sonetos de amor - -
You say I am careless with the weighty word
Love: I throw it around, unconcerned, as if
it means nothing. You guard it like it is
precious, bury it in obsidian sands. No, Love
should be used with abandon, ceaselessly,
till the tongue shapes it, water flowing over
one of a thousand creek stones. Each is smoothed
by the constant force; when it stops the pebble is
changed. If I do not say it, rough edges remain
and are hidden. The beach sands are tiny,
fall through my fingers; perhaps you fear
you'll do the same. But the soft repetitions are
practiced: I say it often, yet it doesn't mean less
when I say it to you. Love.
You're beautiful like the oil burning
steam and droplets, the way you freshen
a room and sway like you're gentle.
its just another tango. Its just
Another bead of sweat.
The colors faded into black.
She found her beauty under the
stairs, in a jar marked 'magic'
and her supply is running low.
How could she keep you? If
everything she's touched turns
dead and stone-like. Bisson Rheum.
The fruits of her failed endeavors.
she remembers pressing leaves in
wax paper. where does the magic
come from every time she closes her
eyes, and theres a picture on the
inside.
She will not know quiet without his
mind to soothe it like an artist's
skillful hands.
On a quiet evening she sits alone
(...thats how she wants to be)
tonight she can't seem to breathe
and the universe is closed
behind a muted veil. The fates make
silent martyrs, with crosses too big
to bear in the open.
Where does faith in happy places go
when their doors greet with some
dim fortunes light, not worthy of
our remembrance?
The faint memory of four gravestone
pillars at every corner- where
they'd drink and chant at night,
and a nightmare worth forgetting,
an unborn memory thats crying in
the background.
(...she'd like to forget the
heartbeat she never felt.)
For a faint moment I even tasted the wine,
and the ice in the bucket that sweats
as our moments and confessions float by.
I wonder if tomorrow will be the same
or if I even want it to be. You know
youre only sacred until you become
predictable.
She craves the infidelity of a
lover and a friend. Who comes
home with the faint perfume of
someone elses bedroom. How can
she tell you she just wants your
stories and her jealousy and your
breath down her neck at midnight?
She doesnt want the burdens or
the complications involved in trying
to be your one and only, she just
wants you to love her, while she loves
you in her own way. Under blankets
and whispers and the way the room gets
warmer when you tell her something beautiful.
She cant wait to miss you when you disappear,
cause thats the only way shell miss you.
All I really wanted was to be rescued.
From nothing in particular, but saved just the same.
He just turned his head and coughed (to the left, of course).
I spoke clockwise about saints and phobias thinking all the while about berry stained lips.
Wondering into which hemisphere I should place my initials? I went searching for a purpose.
Five feet, three inches of black-laced fury.
Diamond clutter.
But quietly.
I thought this world would make him hurt, but nothing cuts a man deep enough for me to feel it.
Open your eyes and tell me the difference between blue and orange, between victim
and victor.
Tell me, how many rosaries does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Am I still pretty when I sleep?
In this shirt of yours with the smell still on it.
So we pulled over to rip a stitch or two but the difference was too small to remember.
Has it been this long?
He keeps a count down in his eyes, covering it with paisley. Something cold is under there.
But it's not my name so I don't ask.
These are my unfinished hands.
(so you say you want a love poem? then turn down the t.v.)
You watch me at red lights and say I'm cuter with a clean room. But--
biting my lips won't make you shut up.
And I just want to hear you breathe.
(whisper.)
I promise I wont run away this time.
Telling me I'm beautiful was never enough.
only feeling your eyes on my fingertips
and memorizing the lines of your palms made me believe you.
(and are you listening?)
if you say my name loud enough I might eventually hear you. ok?
(...now I'm listening.)
--- me xx
{edited to add}
THE BOY IS NOT GOING TO IRAQ !!!!!
and we have decided that we are going to get married in August (or sooner if certain things work out just right, but definitely in August if not sooner) come hell or high water.
back to NC I go...
WATERCOLOURS IN THE RAIN
The cats held a meeting,
The Tuesday that you left.
It was early,
Some were grumpy,
But they turned up nonetheless.
Don't ask me what was said there -
The minutes aren't to hand,
And I wondered
As I watched 'em,
Who they'd appointed their chairman.
They seemed to like the sun,
But rain was in the air,
And they cut it short at 7
When I noticed
You weren't there.
- - styled after Neruda's work in Cien sonetos de amor - -
You say I am careless with the weighty word
Love: I throw it around, unconcerned, as if
it means nothing. You guard it like it is
precious, bury it in obsidian sands. No, Love
should be used with abandon, ceaselessly,
till the tongue shapes it, water flowing over
one of a thousand creek stones. Each is smoothed
by the constant force; when it stops the pebble is
changed. If I do not say it, rough edges remain
and are hidden. The beach sands are tiny,
fall through my fingers; perhaps you fear
you'll do the same. But the soft repetitions are
practiced: I say it often, yet it doesn't mean less
when I say it to you. Love.
You're beautiful like the oil burning
steam and droplets, the way you freshen
a room and sway like you're gentle.
its just another tango. Its just
Another bead of sweat.
The colors faded into black.
She found her beauty under the
stairs, in a jar marked 'magic'
and her supply is running low.
How could she keep you? If
everything she's touched turns
dead and stone-like. Bisson Rheum.
The fruits of her failed endeavors.
she remembers pressing leaves in
wax paper. where does the magic
come from every time she closes her
eyes, and theres a picture on the
inside.
She will not know quiet without his
mind to soothe it like an artist's
skillful hands.
On a quiet evening she sits alone
(...thats how she wants to be)
tonight she can't seem to breathe
and the universe is closed
behind a muted veil. The fates make
silent martyrs, with crosses too big
to bear in the open.
Where does faith in happy places go
when their doors greet with some
dim fortunes light, not worthy of
our remembrance?
The faint memory of four gravestone
pillars at every corner- where
they'd drink and chant at night,
and a nightmare worth forgetting,
an unborn memory thats crying in
the background.
(...she'd like to forget the
heartbeat she never felt.)
For a faint moment I even tasted the wine,
and the ice in the bucket that sweats
as our moments and confessions float by.
I wonder if tomorrow will be the same
or if I even want it to be. You know
youre only sacred until you become
predictable.
She craves the infidelity of a
lover and a friend. Who comes
home with the faint perfume of
someone elses bedroom. How can
she tell you she just wants your
stories and her jealousy and your
breath down her neck at midnight?
She doesnt want the burdens or
the complications involved in trying
to be your one and only, she just
wants you to love her, while she loves
you in her own way. Under blankets
and whispers and the way the room gets
warmer when you tell her something beautiful.
She cant wait to miss you when you disappear,
cause thats the only way shell miss you.
All I really wanted was to be rescued.
From nothing in particular, but saved just the same.
He just turned his head and coughed (to the left, of course).
I spoke clockwise about saints and phobias thinking all the while about berry stained lips.
Wondering into which hemisphere I should place my initials? I went searching for a purpose.
Five feet, three inches of black-laced fury.
Diamond clutter.
But quietly.
I thought this world would make him hurt, but nothing cuts a man deep enough for me to feel it.
Open your eyes and tell me the difference between blue and orange, between victim
and victor.
Tell me, how many rosaries does it take to screw in a light bulb?
Am I still pretty when I sleep?
In this shirt of yours with the smell still on it.
So we pulled over to rip a stitch or two but the difference was too small to remember.
Has it been this long?
He keeps a count down in his eyes, covering it with paisley. Something cold is under there.
But it's not my name so I don't ask.
These are my unfinished hands.
(so you say you want a love poem? then turn down the t.v.)
You watch me at red lights and say I'm cuter with a clean room. But--
biting my lips won't make you shut up.
And I just want to hear you breathe.
(whisper.)
I promise I wont run away this time.
Telling me I'm beautiful was never enough.
only feeling your eyes on my fingertips
and memorizing the lines of your palms made me believe you.
(and are you listening?)
if you say my name loud enough I might eventually hear you. ok?
(...now I'm listening.)
--- me xx
VIEW 9 of 9 COMMENTS
aren't you the nicest, most generous girl on earth
<3 thanks