her lips tasted like confession and ache
The air felt like confession and ache but it all made sense when I saw you. You were wearing your hurricane heart across your chest and I was missing the old version of me. There was a tiny tear in your russet plaid shirt, just enough for me to see your skin and my heart beat madly. I heard your question but instead of answering, my world unraveled. I looked deeply into my handful of whiskey and whispered, “He’s going to hurt isn’t he?”
her smile, the calm eye of my hurricane; she softens the edge of my blade with flame; our passion erupts, a flurry of pain; two become one, never to be the same
It’s written that we took things too fast but I never felt that. There was a kiss, there was you inside me and then there was a gorgeous soul union. All in the slowest of motions. Unwritten poems stained the surface, all scribbled on the concrete floor in cool whip and spiced rum. Lips trailed the wrinkled bed sheets and vined around our delusions and vibe checks, leaving us flushed and breathless.
in her verse, i measured, my own heart’s beat; her wondrous beauty, a hitch in my chest; in an instant falling, head over feet; from poets to lovers, we were obsessed
I’ve splashed your walls with indigo ink like the ocean so I can swallow you whole and keep you inside me forever. I’ve never learned to quiet my heart and that’s why everything. It’s my excuse for everything anyhow. Why you laugh at me when I always want to stay in bed, why you can never catch up to me when we run, and why you cook better than me. That smirk on your lips touches that spot right between heaven and hell, you know the one, it’s right before I take a breath and just after I say your name.
white feathered wings, long golden blonde hair; her angelic form, my demon’s embrace; echoed need, on the brink of our despair; scarring perfection, we cannot erase
We have a language of resilience and touch, or sharp edges and long stares, often it’s deep seas and sculpting rivers, a language of unquantifiable beauty. I’m listening to tales of rapturous journeys and deleting them one after another because nothing touches our moon slips or poets curse. Did I tell you that I’m notching the bedside table with all of the ways you make me undone?
crafting one another, in flames of desire; becoming poems, that cannot expire
EC did all the heavy poeming, as always. each new piece she writes is a lesson for the ages.