evanescentdark

       That night, Ramona didn’t sleep. She lay flat on her back and stared at the ceiling, waiting for her eyelids to grow heavy, but they never did. So instead she listened to the rain again, anticipating the sound of song. The grey early light filtered through her curtains, casting shadows on her cheekbones and on her floorboards. The house stretched in the sunlight when Ramona turned on her side. It reached up from its foundations, leaving the earth behind and raising its head into the clouds. And always the patter of rain on the windows and the roof made for constant background noise.       It was 4 AM on a Tuesday morning, and t

Knocked on your chest Looking for a laugh But found instead, A beating heart "No one's there," you said But the words passed straight through me

I want to swim through your veins And love your shaking voice You roll your eyes at mine Let's be birds and sleep on the roof Like I did alone this summer We're getting older All our favorite bands breaking up And you and me Will fertilize the trees Stiff and longing, Take flight alone and keep me here Lamppost is empty now You'll never know what I write Or where it goes Handwriting, a single line Hold my hand please For my safety and sanity While I cross the street We can kiss fingertips in the library.

Her chest a looking-glass Behind, her heart a stone Reflecting back the flicking tongue Of repeated sighs The lawn breaks All is clear A new day being appointed to its task Quiet, now

What to write what to write Inconclusive, they said But did they mean it? Always a good question Good for small groups But bad for snow days truth was a concept created by liars and falsities were made up by those who did not understand that Everything is a lie Everything is the truth No I will not dance in the rain I was never taught how And I do not wish to be seen as a Fool Poets are well paid Obviously And all I have to say is clear crystal And the truth (or deception) of my words Is plain AND readable Easy

I wanted to write a poem About the show I missed last night The lump in my throat when I thought of seeing them live But no one wants to read a poem About a little girl that cried over lost opportunities Cried over not being able to tell her hero How much he meant to her So instead I’ll write a poem About what I really did last night. There were clans gathered from all across the state The taste of scotch on my tongue, sweet and burning Burning in the back of my throat Fairground food filled me And I laughed at the antics of the people around There was a band on that stage And dancers on the other I tried not to think of the show I wa

Maybe you don't have to die To kill the thoughts in your mind Maybe it's just the stars that die When the world's engulfed in flame Maybe sometimes I just forget to cry How I sometimes forget your name And maybe if my dreams take flight My thoughts will fade away Because it's all just linked together At the end of hell's gates

And when she sings in the morning, I forget what to say. She's got the globe tied to her little finger, and she will bring the apocalypse tomorrow by snipping the thread, scrawled out on paper, her vow to her mother that she would never forget the day that the pet dog died. God of the world, goddess of young girls, her handwriting is all that the boy next door has ever known passing notes through the room. All fall down, all die now. She's got a long walk home, and the bath is getting cold. She's just over-hearing conversations now. Always she will. Always she smiles, but she's trying too hard. Scrawl out all those tears with graphite. Loser.

Grey early morning Eyes open, feet cold Clouds hang low in the sky She's sleeping on the floor The turntable is still. There is no noise in the house. Fingertips like third-grade cursive, sleepy lids like silent piano keys. She reaches out of the warm embrace of linen and lets waves of blue light wash over her face. Checking the time, imagining the harmonies a Saturday sunrise would sing. Grey early morning Slipping out of bed Floor mattress Crouching over vinyl collection Thread count high, her sheets are soft against her skin again. The music plays softly. In the warmth of the blankets, she rewrites her name. Twenty different kinds of handw