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lonelythimble · 5 months
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long after
his language is gone
he speaks in fragments
of a man
"i walk two miles a day
to see my mother"
when all else is forgotten
only love remains
in these hopeful prayers
for our joy
"any offers";
"somebody has already decided
you will never have to be alone
these pious declarations
congratulations, congratulations, congratulations
in sweet triplets,
billah billah billah
age fades his tired resignation
and bleak obsession with death
to a cheekiness,
peppering repeated jokes like mantras to lightness
"from the land of the giants"
and a chuckle full of heart
wheezing exclamations of a joy so vast and pure
with wet eyes that could know nothing else but laughter
he speaks in rhythmic rules
handing down meaningless wisdoms
suggestions of another time
"he has no choice
he has to grow his mustache
the girl will say
i will not marry you
you have no mustache
i will let you grow a mustache"
he lives in wonderous truths
in times unknown to us
while i am here
watching the autumn light creeping in,
casting white hair into
wisps of angels
painting old skin soft and lively
lost in the poetry of it;
to be sat in a room
with the same faces,
recycled
the same antics
gathered in cacophony
fussing restlessly in love
this dance of
parent, child
parent, child
of shaking laughter
and musical chairs
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lonelythimble · 1 year
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i untie my snakeskin noose,
and face the time told
in the sand.
i release the pieces
of myself, and see
the red raw of my hand.
the ropeburn stings the sweetest song
of times ive lost,
and grasp to know.
i cling to what i must let go:
early mornings,
the smell of iron.
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lonelythimble · 1 year
Text
all the days after were dust too, as it turned out.
and what else would they be?
how could anything compare to this?
‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎⠀
a love like mother's milk,
so long a story that you and i
are inseparable in history and in heart. my soul is embroidered with yours as stars on the night sky.
half of me is all the ways you complete me, all the things i love in you, all the things you loved in me, taught me.
my movements reflect yours; your speech, mine. we are our own language. this is a home we have built.
‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎
the last thing you taught me
is that love is being known and knowing.
teaching is itself the very act of loving.
love is how you know my strings and frets and keys as well as any instrument,
every button to press to make my heart open, my smile, my laugh bloom to life.
to peel me open in sweet ascension
as comfortable and simple as anything.
‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎⠀
‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎
you made the secrets of the universe feel
so easily understandable.
you slipped into me as thoughtlessly as sleep
and pressed our souls together
so i could feel the universe fall into focus,
like all of this made sense because you were there in my arms, and that was all there was to any of it.
‎‎‎‎‎‎‎
i looked at you and saw childhood and sun,
like love, for you, was a reliving of every happy moment in my life all together at once
in a faded, but so familiar nostalgia.
for the difference in your shape
which made my heart wrap even tighter around the fabric of your being i could see so clearly, love so simply. like it was all i knew, all I'd ever done.
‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎
i pull until my fingernails bend backwards and bleed
at my stretching, clinging heart
which cannot let you go
as you are so deeply entwined into my core.
i undo my buttons numbly
and untie the knot in my scarf.
i lick away where your lips have touched mine for the last time.
the stitches are ripped out of my flesh, the skin stripped. this pain is searing and raw like nothing i knew i could ever feel.
‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎
there is no soft alcove of you in which to take refuge from the raining gunfire of this loss.
‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‎
how can i sleep, my love? the memory of your broken voice
makes my lungs unworthy of air.
i am grateful for the light i had seen in the world
but have never been so lost in the darkness
at the end of our dance.
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lonelythimble · 2 years
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i count this as my first kiss, though
i am well acquainted
with your lips.
every day with you is
another lesson
in gentility; in what "enough" means.
i love you as i have loved to learn, and it is
a young thing. an innocent feeling
as soft and susceptible as i was, unwounded.
you teach me to be tender and permeable and unafraid
in the gaps where i cannot bear the weight alone
of building myself back up to be whole again.
i hide in the space between your breaths
and weep myself clean of ancient sorrows.
you teach me what "home" means. what "safety" is.
i thaw in your warmth to unfurl from my frozen fetus.
i grow in your gentle watering which does not drown
as others' has. there is such love in your hands
as to make this better now where the
chasms of the past cannot be filled
so i will not ask it of you. only, "stay, as long
as you wish to." i kiss your palms to thank
the balance, the health in your love.
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lonelythimble · 2 years
Text
i am sinking again, and it is alright.
you do not need to pull me out of the water,
you need only to stroke my face
as my head goes under,
and i will keep myself afloat.
and if you are sinking too, then only
hold your breath against my mouth
and stay buoyant,
and we can hold onto one another
as the stream moves forward.
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lonelythimble · 2 years
Note
my tommy my tommy you're my jschlatt say it to me - ur latest muse
i am so so completely in love with you
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lonelythimble · 2 years
Text
you say, one day,
while every inch of you
is draped across me,
"tell me your love language
is touch without telling me
your love language is touch,"
and it is the closest
we have come to the thing
we have been teetering around.
i have thought about
all the ways i could say it to you:
how i missed my chance
that friday, backlit,
sunset over the field
where we lay entwined;
you draped over me and
spilling affections like
profanity, me kissing them
back onto your lips.
in a way, i have already said it
without my mouth ever
needing to form the words.
i have kissed it into your skin
and whispered it woven,
embroidered into sweet nothings;
i have tapped it in morse
into the soft skin of your back
and spelled the letters out
stroking your face;
i have threaded it through
the strands of your hair
with my carding fingertips.
when you kiss me
you speak it against my mouth.
it is as simple as the kiss
pressed to the back of my neck
as you come up from behind
to embrace me;
it is as simple as
the peck on the cheek
to say "goodbye,"
and the unspoken
that is spoken:
you have said it
a thousand times,
and i a thousand more,
and yet my mouth remains
gaping as a fish for air,
even though I know
exactly the words i wish to speak—
even though you know already
what i will say.
i scream it to the universe
and the words leave me
like light. so weightlessly
they pull my body
from the ground.
but when you are before me
i cannot muster a whisper.
our mouths have danced
a million dances
but you paralyse my lips now.
the words sit heavier than
the love i hold for you
on my tongue, and i can only
kiss you to let them be spoken.
(so kiss me, angel,
and i will let you know
you're loved)
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lonelythimble · 3 years
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maybe it is bad for me to love.
a bulbous heart too big for my body
swells gaseous, so throbbing and heavy.
my spine coils up to capture it, but it
bursts from my ribcage to impale itself
on the very bones it breaks.
i love as frantically as my mother.
drench every second, fill the gaps between the words
to build the barricades & never slow my sprint
to feel you there, pressing into every edge of me.
selfish sweet, whisper "stay stay stay stay."
i love with the intensity of my mother;
all of me alight and screaming silent,
blood bottled away and piling under the rug
to make your mattress.
i am bloodshot and unclosing;
i sleep with my eyes open lest you leave in the night,
but you make no move to run.
muscle memory.
would you run your fingers over my corpse face
and put my paper lids to rest?
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lonelythimble · 3 years
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there are spiders in my mouth,
needle pincers pulling webs
like threads, sewing my lips
sealed, silent,
hoarding words like butterflies
under my tongue.
i go to say "good morning,"
or some heartful obscenity
like "i am thinking of you fondly,"
and choke on silver string.
blooming wings scrape the sides
of my cocoon throat.
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lonelythimble · 3 years
Text
i am forsaken by slumber. dreamless,
restless. there is no room for unconsciousness.
how can i sleep? tell me, my love.
when here we have lain and here we have sung
and touched and touched. how can i
crawl back into these sheets and not
feel you press into me again? how can i
place my fingertips on the frets of this guitar
without holding your phantom hands
over the strings that played your tune?
sing it once more for me. do it all over,
just the same. rewind the tape so i can
feel it again. once more. and again after that.
please, so i can breathe. to keep this
heart of yarn from unfurling further.
i let the memory lull me to sleep
and tomorrow, i will leave my laces untied
and look you in your lovely eyes and i will not take
your lips in mine, i will not pull you flush
against me, nor fill the spaces between your
fingers with mine; i will not brush the hair
from your face and I will not say
"i love you,"
or "i have been drinking from the glass of water
you left on my bedside table;" i will tell you
"no, the spectre of your lips does not haunt
my mouth," i will tell you i am not craving you
like a starving fool, i will wash the scent
of your clothes off my body so you do not know
that i have spent the last eight days
marinating in the residue of you on my sheets,
and when you say, "it has only been eight days,"
i will not say "are you counting them (too?)"
or "will you teach me how?" for the days
between are dust, and innumerable.
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lonelythimble · 3 years
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the oldest pianos were made of ivory.
though my bone is not nearly so thick
as that of the old giants,
i will peel back my skin
trying to find myself under the weight of it all.
then, will you hold my hand,
piano player? will you rest your nimble fingers
over my sorry skeleton?
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lonelythimble · 3 years
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lonelythimble · 3 years
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here. i have learned to be fragile,
once more, sensitive, once more
by stripping back my scales
to the tender flesh beneath.
so come, sweet, into my chest;
slip into sleep under the embrace of my ribs
and let the tapping rain of my full, beating heart
lull you softly down.
i will cradle your crown
and trace my broken fingers
over the silken landscape of you.
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lonelythimble · 3 years
Text
by the last flecks of a summer fire
i read words written by a younger hand:
stronger. a little less mild; a little less
droopy than these ones. her words
are flames, their images vibrant,
and i wish to submerge myself in the
profanity of all that she holds in those thoughts.
what would you see in me? you long-locked
brazen beauty? do you envy the pain
pouring out of my pores, you carcass?
i shout it until my throat is hoarse,
begging that you will hear me from
all the way back then. hold on to that
awful thing you are. plant your feet
in your rancid shit and keep spouting
your hatred. to ache is lovelier than
to burn, but everything you became
is wilted and mellow, and no one but you
likes a dying flower. so keep on
sucking the life out of that soil and
let your blooming petals shroud the
lowly grass in shadow, for
only the flower can give
its nectar unto the bees.
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lonelythimble · 3 years
Text
re:love
love is late night
when you are soft and pliable
and i press my forehead to yours
and feel how small your skull is
against mine, how fragile,
your bones on my bones, your
fur on my skin, and i press
my lips to your head
tenderly,
as though i might break you
accidentally.
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lonelythimble · 3 years
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midnight: i stare into the blackness
eating the wall and my eyes crackle
as they shift under papery lids,
and my mind whirrs on, on, on,
like a breezeblock on the pedal,
and I think "I cannot take being alone
any longer," and sprint into the night
with my feet unclad on the tarmac,
so cold the soles grow numb enough
to understand their tenderness and
i cannot tell if it is the mud or my skin
that squelches beneath my body.
it occurs to me as i stumble down
the gaping centre of some road that
i cannot recall the last time i felt fear.
maybe it freezes over in the cold
with the rest of me; my feet too numb
to know the stones cutting into
my soles, my head too clouded by
my breath puffing out before me
to grasp the reality of death as it
peers me in the unflinching face.
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lonelythimble · 3 years
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if i made myself a man
i would become him in autumn;
let my hair fall with the leaves
and my beard grow in time
for the cold to creep in.
a grand spectacle
of transition.
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