naida-vt

I am the hidden collarbones the bent perception behind the mirror a lie wrapped in comfortable skin shifting vision and erasing thought. What you see is out of reach ideas lost in ages, unborn the perfection held here aloft for you to aspire and never catch. I am a shaking blur in eyes weighed down with time seeing nothing but past mistakes and pretend futures Racing toward me blind the warped heft of reality slamming full force into synapse pregnant with disbelief. I am the watcher with too much, extra eyes, different dimensions head in the clouds where I hunt desperately for what is real.

Loudest is the summer the click and constant drone dry heat, cracking stalks and boisterous laughter Shimmering on roads and the deep, throaty roar of blistering breeze and unbearable sighs She pushes warmly honeyed eyes against the winter winds of soft cool air and hushed damp. Fire crackling in brick warmed with cloven spice cold hands clasped about clay and cocoa A shudder of electric gooseflesh, tumbled leaves and menthol nights in humid, scarf covered breath.

My hands have turned to ash, grey and gnarled like twigs branches twisting in the wind to tear and snap at passing. I have lined my nest with parchments It shifts in the breeze with noise, the gentle tap of glass once sand and filled with inky secrets. There are feathers in my hair but not a one poised for flight, beating against my long neck in a bid for currents of freedom. My downy past is inflated, gorged on winter winds, a sussurus in my aching head to swipe and catch at thoughts. Tumbling over stone and leaf I make for my paper haven, wooden hands clasping hard over mossy heart. A trill for the evening air, uttered weakly under the

Why should I take what you give? Lighter than air and just as substantial within my stretched and painted hands barely contained, simmering hot. Will there always be a great nothing? Nothing offered, nothing to take only horror and sinking innards A sadness drilled into blood and bone. I burn with sunny face and light heart until I encounter the walls of you the pushing back, the sand storm you use to protect within yourself forcing moon rise upon the landscape of my threadbare soul, weepingly held out under unrestorative lights to dim and shake without you.

Once I dreamed you were drowning held gently under strawberry milk. There were flowers in your hair as you screamed to me in bubbles. Your hair wafting, wetly loose in streams of chilled cotton candy you are the blackest satin ribbons of pink and burned onyx. I hold court in a tank of spearmint pale twisting green airs about my throat I am above all the Shaking Queen, in all and sundry you bow to me. Your blood flows into chocolate sullied yet again, by misfortune. We cannot continue passing off as though it were simply iron enriched.

There are scars in the meat of my chest drawing eyes and high collars fixed points of red and silver covering nothing in fetching price. If I could steal you from the sun and fill the spaces I had once left in the mourning rains held here driving out all hope of thought perhaps the fine burning stars in my palms would then all but extinguish with the fall of evening lights, perishing in the view of thine eyes. Cold marks out trails along my skin roads to walk with fingers, unknown Holding court along the current of sighs to thunder in collapsing veins. And you stand on the fault line waiting for choice never coming A beacon of my steady h

Don’t pretend just on me seeing here was never my eyes never my form, my light it was all her grace and gesture. I never lured you myself for lack of might, I tried. Response depends on sirens call and unwanted nonchalance. I feel the isolation, thrumming burning into temples racing down your fingertips like no one sees, in you. Not visible, I stand back, far in the shadows waiting to lift you up only when you need me. Yet you are the one who offers first, hands and shoulders bracing wintery breath and hardened skin.

The words always turned bitter stained with verdigris dull and stolen oxidising gently in the air. I cast these brassy bracelets finally to the sea an offering of loss and leaving deadened shores behind. There’s a blank space a break in the thudding the slowing of my horrid ropey, fearful heart. I hold flakes in my hands of soft, white, dead salt. My past peace My weary eyes.

I am lost in the tips of trees toes balanced on the apex of pine and oak And I’m left thinking of you late at night when I’m alone. I can pretend I’m not allergic to this to the things I feel. Pretending to be invincible until it falls away. All that’s left is the pain over you standing on the tips of trees Needles in my heels and such desperate disbelief, to run far. The light on the horizon is you. It has always been. When you walk into the room When you offer a hand. Glee comes softer now tempered with fear So gentled with lashings of such sudden realisation. I am so very broken. Over this, I am broken.

Your fort is the smallest haven of tree and brick and feather. We drink and our brains simmer languidly, between the walls. I can focus on points of light distantly, while you speak of import, ships on fire and the greatest steps you ever made. Your fort is like a den, white, electric, sunken and still made from shadow puppets and steeped, swelling tea leaves. We can forget our names here leave them at the pillowed door under the arch of feathers and sink into the floor boards. The backs of chairs hold up our sky drifting golden above us as though there was no reason ever, to leave.