Winter Song

Do you have memories that are oft forgotten, but a certain smell, or sound can trigger the memory to play so vividly you feel every single thing you felt that night.

Winter, brings the pain and the heartbreak for me. The snow crunching beneath my feet. I was eighteen, I was wild and beautiful and I was walking home at four in the morning with a man almost twice my age and two hundred dollars worth of cocaine in my pocket.

I was so happy. The air hurt my face, and Carl and I spilt his last cigarette. The night was blurred but I remember being in his bed. I remember him telling me he cared. I remember the lyrics he wrote about me. And that he couldn’t sleep with me.

He said he wanted to and that I was beautiful. But I think he just wanted to take care of me.

Advertisements

Shatter

I didn’t love him. 

But he loved the parts of me I couldn’t stand. 

So we played house 

Until I burt it to the ground. 

I Hope She Makes You Miserable 

Lipstick stained cigarettes and old bookshops will remind you of me even if you can’t remember what you’re remembering. 

Skin to Skin

He gently stokes the skin along my neck.

He does it in a way that was never meant to be erotic

but rather like a father trying to sooth his child to sleep.

He kisses the top of my head to remind me once again that he is here.

That I am here.

It’s easy to forget every now and then.

I press my head deeper upon his chest.

Here things seem slow and calm and real.

He moves his face toward mine and grazes his lips upon my forehead.

Then my cheek,

and pauses at my lips.

He glides his finger over my mouth and I pout so we’re closer.

Sometimes skin to skin still doesn’t feel like enough.

His lips meet mine and they dance slowly,

gracefully.

In a way I didn’t think it was possible for me to move.

He tastes of the wine we had just finished

but I guess I was still craving it.

 

The Poet And The Pessimist

She sat there, her head nearly pressing against the glass, admiring the rain gently kissing the pavement.

He sat in his office, eyes glazed with the reflection of the computer screen, mumbling about how the weather ruined his plans for the day.

 

A personal Post

I never saw myself as the type to commit. Going from one night stands and blackout drunk nights with men whose names I couldn’t recall if you asked, to spending evenings at art galleries and coffee shops, family dinners and movie marathons. Discussing upbringings and debating religious views. My romantic life has been switched upside down to something I am no longer ashamed of, and I am so grateful.

I’m sorry

I’m sorry about the bruises

You got from trying to climb the walls

I built about myself

 

They are tall and strong

But they are what

keep me safe

 

I’m sorry about your eyes

They way the leaked over me

Was never something I intended to happen

 

I’m sorry about your bones

And the way they took home in my bed

After I stopped leaving my room

 

I’m sorry about the blisters and burns on your feet

You got after walking miles for me

Just for me to tell you to go back home

 

I’m sorry about your ears

And the way my lies will forever echo

In the drum like I almost loved you

 

I’m sorry about the taste I left in your mouth

Because no matter how badly you want to wipe it away

You won’t dare because it’s sweet and rare and irreplaceable

 

I’m sorry about your bed

And the way it’s filled with

Our memories and my scent.

 

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

Addison

I hope you cry for me one day,

The way I cried for you.