dissolving language.words on silver strings that hang from cosmic lights, dipping low into oceanic bellies late at night. they are the type of words the breathe lightly upon the back of your neck, scrape gently against the small of your back. they are the type that causes your scalp to tickle and your calves to twitch, the sound of an echo deep within your clavicle that somehow reminds you exactly of home. it's the type of word that causes you to sit quietly on summer fields covered in winter frost because you're worried that if you move, winter will leave you. it is the kind that presses against the back of your eyelids when you're gently waking and tempts you

you missed a spot.sometimes i wonder if you like to shoot your gun just because you like the sound of the bullet.

other times, i am left to wonder if it's the heavy metal in your hand or the metallic taste left singeing your tongue. cruelty of a child wrapped in the gilded tongue of a liar, the pettiness of eve's snake, the deceitfulness of an ocean hit by the first storm. you are all smoke and mirrors - dragging the earth down with your fingertips simply because you no longer can feel the sun.

still, even when soaked in my thoughts and rooted in my wonder, i am dragged to surface. i am pulled forcefully back to reality (an artist's work must be enjoyed and

i dream as a lion.i used to dream about sinking into the ocean. i used to dream about going up in flames and finding redemption in the way that the ash fell from my hands. now, when i dream, i think about the way that passion used to light my veins. i think about the pain that pinched my limbs and the cramps that woke me screaming in the middle of the night. i dream about the agony - the way i would stare at the sun and call it living. the way that i called each bleeding wound life and each burned palm passion.

i was the girl that swallowed the world and spit up the ocean. i remember the way that the mountains scraped my throat and the slaughter of

i am there.if you put the wind against your ear, you won't hear the ocean.

you might, however, hear the poem of a landlocked girl with wordless noise slipping from her fingertips. you might hear the way that my breath touches the edge of my lips. you might hear the old glories on my shoulder in the way that veterans talk about the old wars. if you listen hard enough, you might hear me talk about the scars and the way that they've faded, but how on cold winter nights, they still twinge. how they're old but the still bite. you won't be able to see me, but if you could, i would wink and tell you that i like the way that they pucker my skin, i like the rem

i really do believe it.Maybe I will write something sweet.

Maybe I will kiss your slumbering mouth, touch tongue to lip and sing of the taste of honey. It would be light as air – cotton sheets and bare feet. It would be nectar to aching tongues and water to the disbelieving. I would spin sugar into words and paint meadows on naked chests. I would dip my fingers into wading pools of hope and wash them over blank canvas, let the dripping acrylic tell stories of tomorrows with eternal sunshine. I would take molds of happiness and press my laughing mouth against the fold of the envelope as I send it onward into the great beyond.

Maybe I will write something bitt

wait and write to me then.don't tell me about the best way to capture the ocean in your mouth. don't whisper to me late at night about the salt crescent moons behind the bend of your elbows or the way that the breeze is tangling my hair around your ears until you're deaf from the wind. don't, for you see it's easy to whisper poetry when the starlit sky is a cliche over the slumbering world; it's easy to be a poet when the ground is rising up to cradle your shoulder blades and the earth is whispering love notes to you in your sleep. this is when it's easy.

so don't write to me then.

instead, wait until the world is rejecting you from her breast and leaving you breath

home.i press my cheek to the window and for a moment, all i am able to focus on is the pattern my breath plays along the glass. it is a simple emotion and a simple thought and the way my lungs collapse to force the air from between my pursed lips is enough to soak in the rest of my thoughts like a dry and waiting sponge. the voice of the person to my left is butter and velvet, sifting through the air - each and every syllable seeking through the space between us as if to find a resting place, as if with each moment suspended in the air they might be able to find a place to call home.

it is with reluctance that i turn my cheek, drawing myself back

pointless.the point is:
there has never been a point
i am drinking from an empty cup
i am wondering why i am still thirsty
i am writing with an inkless pen
i am angry at my hollow words.
my car is rumbling under its breath
i turned it off five minutes ago
it sounds alive even though it is not

the truth is:
there is actually no truth
my tongue is ripped from falsehoods
it is dipped in sin like a candle string into wax
my bones are black and white, but mostly grey
i am muted even though i am howling
i believe myself even when i shouldn't
i don't believe in truth anymore
none of this is true.

the beauty of it is:
the world actually

the words and the silence_c.words are what brought us together. 

it was the sentences and the phrases, the way the vowels sounded when you murmured them over state lines. it was the way i could hear your tongue roll and your teeth click; the sensual sighs between the beginning and the end. it was the way i could hear the ocean in your voice and the way i could feel the typhoon at the base of my spine. there was no friction between your fingertips and my flesh. there was no raised hairs from the tide of your breath. it was the language and the way we forged it between upraised hands and a prayer. it was the promise of tomorrow and the carved stone we left on our p

the impossibility of apollo.sometimes, it is like i am silent and i am just trying to find my voice. it's like praying in an empty room and choking on the echoes, like singing underwater and trying to untangle myself in the ripples. most of all - oh, most of all - it is like finding a truth that i just can't understand. a truth that wakes with the first morning light, stretches with the dawn. a truth that is part of the earth and yet not of it - one of stars and constellations. one spit from the heavens and yet lying patiently on my front lawn.

this is the truth that i have found. this is the truth that i have swallowed and felt warm in the pit of my belly. it is the t

matchstick heart.the tree outside my window is starting to blossom and sometimes I wonder if I ever will. I touch cotton sheets, the grass, my skin, but don't feel a thing. it's not that I think I'm dead inside, but I can't help but imagine that my ribs are kindle and my heart's a match. you see, I have this feeling that one day I'm going to forget to watch my feet, trip and start a wildfire. start an inferno. burn the stars out of the sky until the world is aflame and the heavens are naught but smoke. oh, but I can't stand the thought of burning you down. I can't stand the thought of watching this home you've so carefully built turn back to ash: sandcastle t

time withers (but i will not break)they say time withers, but that we would never bend. now, i'm not so sure. friendship once forged in fire is growing weak at the base and arthritic at the joints. love cast in steel is now rusted and stained, dissolving at the mere sight of the sun. i trusted you. i did. i wore my heart on my sleeve and bled my tongue from my mouth just to show you the truth of the matter. i swallowed the guilt until it threatened to chew away at the strings holding me up; until i woke up screaming, my lungs giving out in protest as i writhed between cotton sheets, teeth biting the pillow to suppress the next anguished cry threatening to rip from my throat. i

i'll be dead by morning.you've got quick hands and dangerous lips, but everyone knows that the liqueur is quicker and the night is nothing short of fatal. you swallow the sugarcoated freedom, press your body through the band and wind around the writhing torsos like smoke. you are light and you are flame - you are a body without bones and a tongue without words. the lights flash across your face and you're pressing truth into the necks of nameless bodies, feeling hope in exposed hips, digging for faith in sweat-slicked back rooms.  

your mouth is numb with regret and you are swallowing the past with every shot. reality has buried a hatchet in the back of

Inexhaustible.Sometimes, I long for the breath of sorrow that once guided me.

No longer is the twisting wind and the gnashing teeth of mourning cries guiding my fingers to my pen and my heart to the beat. No longer does my spine twist at dusk – tying upon itself as my hands press against the small of my back, pushing my pelvis forward as I arch back, back, back into the great beyond of darkness and light. No longer is my sleep punctuated with awakeness and my days punctuated with sleep. I no longer am curled into the shadow of myself and plucking words from heartstrings that have long since bled dry.

Still, on nights where the moon is hollowed again

we love - i dreamwe are swimming in the ocean and our lungs are turned inside out. we are creating black holes with the tips of our fingers and pushing in our doubts into the center of the void. we know that truth isn't a truth so much as a guess and we are therefore given the liberty to create our own. we are the truth. love is the truth. we can stand in fields and hold the falling sky on our shoulders and call spring our truth. because  

love is a spear and it is bracing my spine from yielding. my mouth is stumbling on the words i have always known and i am teaching the phrases to my lips once more. your palms are resting on the skulls of resti

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Reverie.I resent waking up when I’ve been dreaming of you.

In the early haze of the morning, I can still draw the angles of your cheeks, can still remember the spice of your scent. With eyes closed, it is easy to recall drowning in your eyes and finding salvation anchored against your chest.

It is so easy when I’m still caught in the grips of sleep.

It is only when the violets and corals fade that I begin to forget about the way your hair framed your face. I can feel the pitterpatter of my heart bumping off course as I try to hold on to the way your pulse had stuttered into place with mine.

When the sun begins to burn too bright, I can

I can still hear you here.             I am drowning in the reverberation of the fissures
                                     tearing through my heart.
                     I am surrounded by the echo

Broken Reflections.My toes are curling inside out.

And my skin is falling like peeling wallpaper, pulling away from me as if I am the disease and it is searching for salvation at the roots that grow and branch out from my feet.

I am kneeling at the feet of ancient towers, blind hands running along the weathered cracks and I can feel the scales on my eyes pressing together so that I know nothing except that I am not alive.

[Not yet.]

As I sit, I am gurgling prayers along the naked length of my songs, so that the hallelujahs and the choruses are blending together and I am plummeting between each line.

If I could, I would lose myself in each rising word, craw

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winter heart.

by =corina90, Nov 3, 2011, 9:46:30 PM
Literature / Prose / Fiction / Philosophy & Perspectives / Flash Fiction & Vignettes

maybe it's the weather. maybe it's the steam in the morning and the fog in my lungs that brings these words to life. i can feel them stirring under my breath like a second life; i can taste them in the december air that teases nostalgia from the pitter patter of my winter heart.

it's like life is a faded photograph. its like time is a frozen lake. it's like i'm sitting on porches wearing oversized sweaters and holding cups that burn the tips of my numb fingertips. it's like i'm in a forest and it's damp. it's dark. it tastes like a memory and the rain looks the way it did two years ago when i was broken. it's like remembering something perfect in a moment that was anything but; like holding something just out of reach in the palm of my hand.

ten months and three days ago: i'm in a coffee shop with frost on the sidewalk. it is quiet and loud and i have the feeling that i really am all alone. but it isn't bad. it is peaceful. it is soft and my bruised heart breathes deep. i exhale. it is the knowledge of being surrounded and the noise being a cocoon. busy lives and i am still. i am a rock in the river and it is cold. my hands are tingling from the frostbitten air, but i am happy.

it feels like that. it feels like my soul is stirring hot under the frozen water - like now that the sun has set, i can stand the heat of my words. they cry and yelp as they rise from their dust-covered graves. they shake the coming snow from their shoulders and leap through the fog. it feels like that - liking coming home to the cold and letting the winter slip its arms around me. it feels like summer is gone and the cold has burned the edge off of july pain. like the cold had reanimated my still heart, my marble fingers; like the fog has softened my marble fingers, my granite tongue.

(like summer has faded and my silence finally can too.)

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{"and I would give all this and heaven too
I would give it all if only for a moment
that I could just understand the meaning of the word you see
‘cause I’ve been scrawling it forever but it never makes sense to me"
--florence + the machine

because there's something about winter that makes me nostalgic.
and something about november air that makes me giddy.
and something about fog in the morning that makes me write.

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~1-Ace Nov 12, 2011

what's written above are all ample reasons for why you should write.
and one more:

beautiful.

*AlterEgo1629 Nov 8, 2011 Hobbyist Writer

This is absolutely sensational!

~Kayanya Nov 7, 2011 Hobbyist General Artist

I'm glad you found time for writing again

~inkels Nov 6, 2011

i don't think you will ever know how much i needed this. thank you

~Lottie-Girl Nov 6, 2011 Student General Artist

'it's like i'm sitting on porches wearing oversized sweaters and holding cups that burn the tips of my numb fingertips.'- love that line.
This is stunning.

~pauseplay Nov 6, 2011 Hobbyist Photographer

it's great to read something from you again! ^^ this is also a lovely piece<3

~garekarebear Nov 5, 2011

beautiful as always.

~girlink Nov 4, 2011 Student General Artist

"it tastes like a memory...
it's like remembering something perfect in a moment that was anything but; like holding something just out of reach in the palm of my hand...
and i have the feeling that i really am all alone."

....If you carry my heart to your ear, you would hear the sea

~FriendlyArt120 Nov 4, 2011 Hobbyist Photographer

I missed the ... feeling.. these pieces of yours give..

*Arrin-Wolf Nov 4, 2011

i fucking love this.

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winter heart.

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winter heart.by =corina90

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