–
it never occured to me
the delicate tumult of self
held in fingertips of glass
shattered and cracked
on the small of my back
not even the gaze of love
spared me from despair
of a love that never was
tender, forgiving, and saving
puncturing the pulp of something
that once felt so sweet
gripped by forgiveness
a grace you searched for
none to high or too low
something that you felt familiar
not once but twice before
__
<<no format writing from the stars>> <<insert: Karolina & Easton>>
To Him, love was enveloping and bliss. He gripped forgiveness by her hands so tenderly, as the sun does of the trees – it hasn’t shined his way in as long as he could remember. The sleepless nights brought a peace in predictability, and ushered him into something that felt paradoxically warm and mothering. A soundly sleep felt like guilt, hooked up to a ball and chain tenderly intertwined with the impending days so highly strung on repeat it felt criminal. Where somewhere East feels like respite, a vast longing of softness that even god himself wouldn’t be able to spin from imagination. He daydreamed of stars and the moon, knowing they’d visit him in a heartbeat in just a few short hours. His passions bloomed despite writing in blood from a cut as thin as a sliver of driftwood. In this tortured life, how could He be so open?
his idea of love, so intact, untouchable and pacified, he knew the feelings – not once but twice before.
He and she loved, but something felt sour. The shards so deeply dug in her thighs seem to stay, and are too painful to rip out, so she spend 3 years in recluse licking wounds grazed with sweetwater tears– until finally she slowly slipped out each dagger piece by piece with blood glistening in the moonlight. Was it her fault for being so herself? Falling victim to the naive that clings onto her like wax and sloppily trudges on to my legs with each step. In each passing moment, she sit and think of the ways life could’ve been so different. If she acted in self-honesty, respect, love, and forgiveness – maybe she could’ve been different, maybe we could’ve, aand maybe because of this we shouldn’t. We can’t grant our younger selves compassion, so maybe we’re not deserving of peace – not peace in Ourselves. The love she knew was never love, and He's loved not once, but twice before.
To her, love was an unsexy and unforgiving sacrifice. She’s never known a true tender touch. Conversations meant to be deep, turned to scathing gaslight exchanges that came disguised as care.
Her body never felt hers, aand neither she did it feel as it was his. So detached after the one night that every caress felt like a scratch, every kiss felt like pinch, and every moment when she woke up begged for slumber again, yet she sought refuge in him.
To her, this One she finds now at her knees, pulls colors out of grey, but she can’t think that he’ll be here to stay.
a touch so loving it felt poisonous, so she’ll lay where she always does – where the milk spills among the stars.
and He, who gazes into the nights sky
seeks a love could have been like no other and builds a rocket to be among the stars before her and Him fall into the very things that love once was.
