It’s spring and you bud, as is expected of you. Heavy with the burden of the pollen bearer. Boldening eyes take the world in and uncareful tongue spits it back out.
Chronological inertia, you reek of zeitgeist. Starved of it all. It’s wrong —— all those lost syllables. Of course you’re confused.
Drained fingertips, itching to touch. Nettle stings and hoarded things, lost to the tide, clogged with so many things that aren’t you.
Your twirled hair, splitting fibres like entrails, piled in the bleached thistles. Waiting for unrequited caution.
Your whirlpooling eyes, only a mirror and a daily dose of Lethe. I’m sorry darling.
My silence is gilded, an absence somewhat omnipotent to you.
You look at me like a prophecy of better days, your Orlando.
It’s only Babel.
You cross the Styx on your way home to me, and I wish you wouldn’t.
How can I lie to her?
How can I allow myself to be in pieces?
I’ll meet you again in the summer.
We will find our spot, under the warped bridge, beneath the laurels. Just beyond the wingspan of the sun, where we overflow.
You will tease the water for a word, any word at all, and I will be patient as I have before, knowing that each ebb of you will flow back more fruitful than before.
Your unscathed hands on babied wrists, i never forgot about them. I’m sorry about your arm, I truly am. A Monet cast irridescent with paint, for an impressionist July.
I will cup your face and you will trace my eyes. Daisies, not dandelions, halo you -laughing at a cloudless sky. Your smile will still be coated with the same sugar. This time I’ll hold you.
I’ll meet you again in the summer
I will return to you finished ( as you always thought me to be. )
- Rachel O’Sullivan / kiwi’s scribblings
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