All the little deaths and beautiful scars- erroneouschoices

Holding on tightly to the hand written letter, I looked out at the growing world and the birds were silent, watching too maybe. As my heart pounded a little in anticipation, I read the script on the outer part of the fold. “Read me gently” in his crazy penmanship that I remembered immediately. Sort of like the way he spoke, rough around the edges but his vowels were crafted to perfection.

I smiled at the first few sentences, “Hey love, I know this finds you beautiful but I hope this finds you well too. Do you remember when I told you that one day I’m going to finally have enough money to buy my house on a mountain where I can live peacefully alone? That I’d have an enormous library and someone that comes once a month with supplies and more books. There would be a little cot near the cliff where I can drink, and smoke, and read, and look down at some sad little village trying to make unendable ends meet. I’ll have paper so I can write to my hearts content. Maybe some can visit, but stays are only short. People taint you. Well, they taint me, and I bleed when I’m not in my own colors. Well…. I’m there kid, I’m there.”

We had spent so many long nights where nothing made sense but our hearts wouldn’t stop talking. And in the end we decide we had to kill Netflix or concluded that the trees only whispered and then we’d muse at what the world would be like if they only shouted. Once he told me he was about to make ribbons out of my dress with his teeth as my heart melted around his soul. This man, he was a love affair between a word and the meaning it masks, how the word helps the world stay hidden.

The sky is a bruise and coffee is godly. I wouldn’t ever say I didn’t miss him, even the birds were quiet for a bit while I wished him. But we had our time and now he has his dream. I love my letter, I put it to my face and inhaled deeply. Maybe it was my imagination but I smelled him. I kissed his words lightly leaving a tiny hue of pink over them.

The sky is a tempest and the coffee is divine. I took out my pen and wrote a few simple words, took a deep breath as I folded it and made it ready to send. Life’s like this. And people, well I’ll be damned if people that touched my thighs and my life hadn’t left indelible marks inside my heart.

Id love to be a bird on his shoulder and watch him smile as he read my note. “I have words in me that are in the shape of you.”


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Tempest is the word of all my days- erroneouschoices

His eyes charmed me. He was not a word person, he always asked what I meant by charmed. There’s something alluring about seeing novels, short stories and bibles behind eyes that don’t translate through their owners lips. Like an undiscovered island that you’re certain holds a treasure for you but you have to dig deep and hard to reach it.

I fear for myself, that one day my words will start a revolt and become outrageous, and I also hope they actually do. Some truths require a slow bleed and the way I’ve been bleeding out I’m probably the truest thing alive.

We’ve talked, he and I, about me being wild and worse, and much more. It strikes me critically that this minimal wordy man can see straight through me and communicate a thing so profound in poetic form without even knowing his genius.

For all intents and purposes I’m reserved and complacent at all times. The tempest beneath should be shrouded in decorum yet my wild is sweaty and seepy to his piercing island eyes. Remind me of me, please always remind me of me so I don’t fade away. I might die of grace


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Part my ribs- erroneouschoices

I adored all the things he did that made me feel like he was strong. It wasn’t only in the things he did but from the air of confidence he brought with him everywhere. If he was strong, I could feel weak but safe. Being the strong one was over-rated and exhausting.

As I watched him working under the hood of the car I knew I was as going to miss him desperately. My body started to ache and I wanted to make me think of other things but I wasn’t able enough.

Laughter is a kind of sex and that meant we had sex down pat. He was the best at getting a laugh but moreso a smile from my usual poker face. His eyes never failed me, filled with reckless they constantly ignited my abandon. And every time he bit his lip while concentrating Id salivate at the idea he was biting down hard on my lip and I’d have to press my legs together to temper the heat in my lady bits. I wanted to live the dream where we kissed any time we wanted and I know all his shoes and shirts and he’d feed me breakfast. And I was there, damnit, I was there.

Things are fluently fleeting and neverlasting, and when he kept saying he wanted to be the best man that he could be it kept making me think that is sounds so judgmental, so difficult and everything I don’t want. We never run out of sins in all this breathing we do while dying. The struggle to be the best would take away the light and breeze from being the not best.

Im well aware that the heart and brain fight like little children. But they also know each other better than bread and butter. Sometimes what the heart can’t do the brain fills in and visa versa.

I’m made of stubborn softness and sea breezes with a touch of pink to lighten the space between. I’m getting to know my heart better and my minds getting to know life better and madness tastes like him.

As the madness began to grow and the sanity dispelled, I knew I was going to miss him more than my mind, but not more than my heart.


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