Tuesday, April 29, 2014

she used to live here

she used to live here, and i miss her dear.

she used to live here, where life beats in this cage of mine. she lived free where she paid no rent, in between the aorta, the pulmonary artery. where blood flowed through, filled to the brim through my entranced avenue; my heart's rush, my heart's archery. i remember so well, deep within the wells of my thoughts, inside a world i live in and where i'm never afraid to go in. she was my cause of arrhythmia, my undecided utopia where i lost some of my heartbeats. i still have not claimed, the beats my heart skipped.

she used to live here, by the window, where the suns hits the sill. she sits there, right there, where the wood would creak every time she shifts her weight. her form, would catch the light and as she paints the scene with her silhouette. her legs bent, 45 degrees, angles her form in a common comfortable menagerie, as if she was dreaming in reverie. she sits there, hours on end with a book nestled on her knees. every time she sifts through the pages, i can see the calm stillness on her face, knowing that she was home.

she used to live here, in between these satin silk sheets. 10,000 thread counts of egyptian silk. it was almost, her skin. her skin was as soft, as supple, as if you were gliding through the clouds. in succession of cumulonimbus, cumulus; the thunderstorms and then the decisive calm. how it transpire, like fiery fire from the bosoms of hell as it gushes like magma spewing slowly into a miasma of sensation that ceases and settles into a final calm, after the storm.

she used to live here, in my arms. where she would lay after her weary travels, on my apologetic shoulderblades. my hands on the small of her back, and my lips on the nape of her neck. i would constantly sing her whispers, into her ears. sweet nothings and bitter somethings. everything that she would like to hear. my fingers will never fail to trace, every line and shape that makes her bodice. a perfect form, the greatest design and the highest echelons of marriage between form and function. the curve of her ampersand lips, i will never forget as it settles on my forehead in times of regret or delight.

she used to live here, and i miss her dear. like the severe tugs of the strings of the heart. like as if life, would slowly depart, rendering my heart; obsolete. as if affection, would live and then leave at the height of ardor euphoria.

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