half a dreamt raindrop
the rain stops.
liquid fumes of asphalt lick the ghostly footsteps of passing figures, left-overs from your city. the floating west wind has ceased breathing over you and blows
How are you? I thought of you, glancing vaguely in your direction, and the air over your city is still, empty of water. Indeed, the wind smells faintly of your washed hair, soft and slightly damp in the dark. as the dark sky lightens, I rejoice that you, cocooned in the softest blankets of dream, do not have to face a rainy world.
You are not a morning person, so I hope you wake soon. Perhaps I can imagine you drowsily turning, mumbling letters of love to the stray striped feline who we discovered one mist-wrapped day, who prefers kneading your pillow. It's rather difficult, though. Rumbling thunder, heavy blanketed, pads softly by, cat-like. Weather is so discontent, discomforted in grey dawn, when shut out with stuffed sheets. Don't let her in. She will eventually leave, with all the boom of a pregnant woman, grumpily obscuring the expanse of freedom that lies bare in the silver-blue sky, naked as a unborn child.
If you start chirping to the dawn, as you always do, let me hear your voice. Your babbling tunes pale to the morning doves, drowning you in wordless song, so it is difficult for me to understand if you mouth nothing, tongue empty, lungs stuffed with forgotten breaths. Its a strain to translate this vibrating heartbeat, this pulsating music, long and steady across the lilting syntax of your body, even if you whisper
come back to me
--- edit: I'm absolutely frustrated with this piece. I'll give you the visual, help me phrase this!
A blurry figure (man or woman) against a sky that has just started to yawn, tremble and awake. The sky is a dark dark blue with purpling clouds, with a disappearing moon and faint glistening strands of bright slipping through the blue patchwork. The air is blank, it stirs slightly with a slip of a breeze or so, the kind that feels gently cool against your face while the rest of you is wrapped warmly in the sleep-filled blankets. Except the figure is totally exposed to it though wrapped in thin clothing and heshe doesn't shiver but heshe is stripped rather empty of the warmth of bed and sleep.
The figure is in a condo, forty floors up, heshe is just emerging from a balcony to stare at the morning. The balcony is bare. Railings? Perhaps. But heshe's feet touch the white tiles cold with dawn and heshe stares at the city which someone is in, miles away, but still dark blackly stark visible against the distance.
And heshe smells asphalt from the streets of your city, and heshe remembers the gentle slap of feet against the pavement and heshe ghosts around the city's streets with blank eyes, all darkness and light. And heshe's thoughts turn to you gently unwillingly asleep and with the jolt of smothered shock that comes with too much lidded sleep heshe realizes remembers like the ghosts of awakened dream that you are not a morning person! You hate mornings but thankfully the rain has passed from one city to another and heshe is suddenly awash with a gentle gladness that you don't have to suffer through the rainy sad morning, when both of you are apart. And because you don't wake up early, I too am filled with the irrational fear muffled by sleep that you won't be able to wake up, because I won't wake you up, I worry and my thoughts turn to
Being by your side crumpled white sheets the rustling the soft murmurs of birds as I hold my knees to my chest and breathe you mornings in and I look out of the window at the glorious spreading sky lightening with you right next to me, still sleeping heavily stirring faintly with the slightest hint of light and I wait I look down waiting for you to open your eyes and open your hesitant slightly drowsy, sad expression of waking from sleep and before you can part your lips to speak anything even complain
My thought turn back to the same sky we are both under lightening gloriously now, less intimately and suddenly although it is the same sky and the same sense of impossible the same scent of freedom it isn't the same! because you have disappeared very literally from my side and irrationally fearfully desperately I suddenly want to
hear your voice caressing the air with sleep-ridden syllables I want to hear your first words, I want to hear you, you all of a sudden like a dull ache flaring open I want to hear you, because I know everything about you I know you are sleeping I know where you are! I can see your city I can see you the ghost of you flickers through my mind but your own voice eludes me, the voice you have upon waking up, gently cross at this real world who wakes you up too gruffly from your restful dreams and like a sleepwalker I too start to wake from my delusion of seeing you and while I see your city I want your voice to transcend it to reach me! in this rainy season in this past blown air of emptied water of silenced thunder there is an emptiness and a void and I cannot fall asleep again to imagine you because I want so desperately to hear you calling come back to me but I cannot even let me hear your voice
I can't express it half so well but I want to so much! Its a image I got and I need to picture it I need to put it in words but I can't and it eludes me like half a dream and ARGH the beautiful pretty pretty thing won't let me catch it net it in the cool web of words it won't come to me either! Help me please anyone who can understand this.
liquid fumes of asphalt lick the ghostly footsteps of passing figures, left-overs from your city. the floating west wind has ceased breathing over you and blows
How are you? I thought of you, glancing vaguely in your direction, and the air over your city is still, empty of water. Indeed, the wind smells faintly of your washed hair, soft and slightly damp in the dark. as the dark sky lightens, I rejoice that you, cocooned in the softest blankets of dream, do not have to face a rainy world.
You are not a morning person, so I hope you wake soon. Perhaps I can imagine you drowsily turning, mumbling letters of love to the stray striped feline who we discovered one mist-wrapped day, who prefers kneading your pillow. It's rather difficult, though. Rumbling thunder, heavy blanketed, pads softly by, cat-like. Weather is so discontent, discomforted in grey dawn, when shut out with stuffed sheets. Don't let her in. She will eventually leave, with all the boom of a pregnant woman, grumpily obscuring the expanse of freedom that lies bare in the silver-blue sky, naked as a unborn child.
If you start chirping to the dawn, as you always do, let me hear your voice. Your babbling tunes pale to the morning doves, drowning you in wordless song, so it is difficult for me to understand if you mouth nothing, tongue empty, lungs stuffed with forgotten breaths. Its a strain to translate this vibrating heartbeat, this pulsating music, long and steady across the lilting syntax of your body, even if you whisper
come back to me
--- edit: I'm absolutely frustrated with this piece. I'll give you the visual, help me phrase this!
A blurry figure (man or woman) against a sky that has just started to yawn, tremble and awake. The sky is a dark dark blue with purpling clouds, with a disappearing moon and faint glistening strands of bright slipping through the blue patchwork. The air is blank, it stirs slightly with a slip of a breeze or so, the kind that feels gently cool against your face while the rest of you is wrapped warmly in the sleep-filled blankets. Except the figure is totally exposed to it though wrapped in thin clothing and heshe doesn't shiver but heshe is stripped rather empty of the warmth of bed and sleep.
The figure is in a condo, forty floors up, heshe is just emerging from a balcony to stare at the morning. The balcony is bare. Railings? Perhaps. But heshe's feet touch the white tiles cold with dawn and heshe stares at the city which someone is in, miles away, but still dark blackly stark visible against the distance.
And heshe smells asphalt from the streets of your city, and heshe remembers the gentle slap of feet against the pavement and heshe ghosts around the city's streets with blank eyes, all darkness and light. And heshe's thoughts turn to you gently unwillingly asleep and with the jolt of smothered shock that comes with too much lidded sleep heshe realizes remembers like the ghosts of awakened dream that you are not a morning person! You hate mornings but thankfully the rain has passed from one city to another and heshe is suddenly awash with a gentle gladness that you don't have to suffer through the rainy sad morning, when both of you are apart. And because you don't wake up early, I too am filled with the irrational fear muffled by sleep that you won't be able to wake up, because I won't wake you up, I worry and my thoughts turn to
Being by your side crumpled white sheets the rustling the soft murmurs of birds as I hold my knees to my chest and breathe you mornings in and I look out of the window at the glorious spreading sky lightening with you right next to me, still sleeping heavily stirring faintly with the slightest hint of light and I wait I look down waiting for you to open your eyes and open your hesitant slightly drowsy, sad expression of waking from sleep and before you can part your lips to speak anything even complain
My thought turn back to the same sky we are both under lightening gloriously now, less intimately and suddenly although it is the same sky and the same sense of impossible the same scent of freedom it isn't the same! because you have disappeared very literally from my side and irrationally fearfully desperately I suddenly want to
hear your voice caressing the air with sleep-ridden syllables I want to hear your first words, I want to hear you, you all of a sudden like a dull ache flaring open I want to hear you, because I know everything about you I know you are sleeping I know where you are! I can see your city I can see you the ghost of you flickers through my mind but your own voice eludes me, the voice you have upon waking up, gently cross at this real world who wakes you up too gruffly from your restful dreams and like a sleepwalker I too start to wake from my delusion of seeing you and while I see your city I want your voice to transcend it to reach me! in this rainy season in this past blown air of emptied water of silenced thunder there is an emptiness and a void and I cannot fall asleep again to imagine you because I want so desperately to hear you calling come back to me but I cannot even let me hear your voice
I can't express it half so well but I want to so much! Its a image I got and I need to picture it I need to put it in words but I can't and it eludes me like half a dream and ARGH the beautiful pretty pretty thing won't let me catch it net it in the cool web of words it won't come to me either! Help me please anyone who can understand this.