Monday, 13 April 2015

Lessons# 8768

             (These are my Instagram writings from the account @hyperbolemuch)


Of all the Sundays
I spent in bed,
My favourite were
The ones I
Slow-danced with you, 
In my head.

You curved my back 
and dipped me low,
Unconditioned ends of my hair 
brushing the floor.
Free-spun the orange smeared
Evening and pulled her
Between our entangled limbs.
Nursing and keeping
6oclock alive, 
Than it was advised.

Don't worry darling;
The city never noticed,
They were too busy 
Running their errands.

(Picture credit: The heartbreaking account @ballerinaproject with the gorgeous @sarahjjames)


I'll twist my body
Into a question mark.
I'll bend over
As soft as a sigh.
I'll turn myself
Organs out,
All for Love. All for Love.
And the only way,
Love will take me down
Is mid-dance.

(Picture credit: @ballerinaproject)


Fire may sear and brand your skin, but it's winter that slithers into the caves of your bones. At first snowflakes tingle and taste warm on your tongue, while icy winds lick secrets onto your ear. And then one day, you wake up having no memory of how to care about disease, starvation, heartache or anything other than the wretched temperature outside your window.

(Picture credit: Pictured above is New Jersey. Shot by my talented friend @kloseframe)

(For more, find me on Instagram: @hyperbolemuch)

No comments:

Post a Comment