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Literature Text
postcard 1:
somewhere between here and
there i realised: good things don't
happen because of 52. they happen
because we let them.
postcard 2:
and baby i'm afraid of a lot of things.
like the way your fingers read my skin like
braille in the dark. and i may not have any more
secrets left that way.
postcard 3:
but you still like to explore every corner of
my spine.
postcard 4:
i have a drawer full of foxgloves and a
sandpit of forget-me-nots. i
love your stretching tree-branch arms.
postcard 5:
you are magic, you are magic, i say. and i am
lost in the ocean of your eyes.
somewhere between here and
there i realised: good things don't
happen because of 52. they happen
because we let them.
postcard 2:
and baby i'm afraid of a lot of things.
like the way your fingers read my skin like
braille in the dark. and i may not have any more
secrets left that way.
postcard 3:
but you still like to explore every corner of
my spine.
postcard 4:
i have a drawer full of foxgloves and a
sandpit of forget-me-nots. i
love your stretching tree-branch arms.
postcard 5:
you are magic, you are magic, i say. and i am
lost in the ocean of your eyes.
Literature
this april
The moonlight falls through squinting blinds, bowing softly to hug the arc of his naked body. The blankets are strewn about his toes as a girl, no more than sixteen, lays wide-eyed and warm-bodied beside him.
She silently watches the dreams come and go beneath his eyelids, she quietly feels his chest rise, rise then fall and she listens to the heavy breathing that accompanies it. Beautiful breathing, she thinks, tracing generous lips with fingertips.
The air is cool but she is alight.
Everything in this room bathes in blue shade. She watches the alarm clock beside the bed, numbers coming and going out of fashion before her eyes.
Literature
the things we'll never say.
1.
snakes crawl out of my mouth,
hands like sleep waiting silently
for me to give into them.
i toss words like rocks
across my tongue, skipping
across the lake, and we reach,
hands outstretched, for the sun
but it's a shame it's all empty.
2.
listen, if you loved me, you
wouldn't try to fix me.
if you loved me, you'd paint
butterflies across the wall
to make me smile. listen,
if you loved me, you'd give
me handrails to hold onto
on the way down. you'd tell me
that right now, i'm a caterpillar
(but that caterpillars become
butterflies.) listen,
if you loved me,
you'd love me broken, too.
3.
don't speak.
sure, you cou
Literature
intoxication
i see naked bodies in the gutter as i walk queen street at 3 am. they make love, awkward but warm in the concrete curve. i don't place their clothes. i think it is wonderful though. the heat, the heat.
my entire body is rolling from heavy to light, like the shore. my head is humming and my limbs ache dull. there is a sickness in my stomach or in my throat. i think that maybe my stomach is wanting to force itself out my throat- but i won't have that.
i walk further. there are no straight lines to follow but i picture them in my mind and still cannot walk across them. i trip, tumble on the edge of the pavement and no one sees. the alcohol pul
Suggested Collections
or rather, five postcards from somewhere quite special.
© 2009 - 2024 juliatrotti
Comments38
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This is amazing. I love it.