skybluefeeling

Look between the indentations of skin that has aged through time and time and time again until repetition no longer means anything and you’re left with hollow eyes that used to bear a story that no one ever told. Left heavy on my heart is the wolf’s cry that’s so tainted by a lion’s thunder and the intimate but obnoxious laughs of outsiders that put themselves in a place where they thought they belong. The problem lies in thinking you know a painting when the canvas has barely felt the ink stain and  you run wild, insane with casual beliefs that have diseased and polluted your very existence and punch holes in

The fire of the autumn sun burns against the grain, of leaves scattered on shaded ground beneath early morning rain. Plaid shirts mixed with alcohol, chapped lips against cold skin; some dance among the daylight stars, others fight with midnight's twin. Lost within realms of ecstasy, some cry with tears of gold, and others wander, bruised and sore; an immature soul gone old. Drunk on life, they stagger, some withered and some found, the blinds of autumn are drawn, the leaves swept from the ground.

There were days where even the sun couldn't reach your smile. The shower water couldn't rinse away the happy tears, of times that mattered, of times that could be remembered. I am youth trapped within an aging soul, my skin has worn and stretched, my veins no longer shadowed. It hurts me that I miss you. I should hate you, I should, for the nights where alcohol was not the cause of my sadness, for the betrayal that you so carelessly sung out like a ballad. I was your soldier, the one who marched on when the battle was too strong - but even soldiers fall down, sometimes they don't make it home. And what is to be done, I ask

 Wandering fae dances with the leaves in her hair and moonstone reflecting in her eyes. her hair, tinted lavender by the night, glistens as the clouds hide behind a morning that is no longer a given. a city clock strikes 2:38 and nobody really knows why, but dogs cry in the farthest room we know and all we can do is listen and hope. {and a beggar keeps on begging, his knuckles scrape off untouched grounds; nobody knows his name} but dancing fae knows he is there; a man with no mask who is entirely familiar yet the strangest being she's never seen. (and the morning doesn't come, and the night doesn't last -- but we're sti

Legs tangled together like outstretched branches of a tree that's lived so many lives that even God can't read its stories. My nose touches the beat of your heart, and I feel a kind of warmth and flurry of excitement -- like meeting a stranger for the first time, like getting lost in a city where the sun never sets, like dancing until dusk and running forever - but you aren't a stranger to me. The heat of your breath on my neck, the feel of your fingertips as they dance along my spine; your touch, embracing every crevice within me until I swear it can touch my soul. I realise I've never felt so safe; so protected in your arms

We eat cherries together, squatting like birds among the branches of a shea tree that smells like cucumbers and makes me feel at home. We spit the stones in each others faces, giggling fanatically; innocence that I'm just not ready to lose. My scabs are childlike, my bruises still don't scar; I'm not ready for tomorrow's windstorm. You hug me close to calm the goosebumps that line my purple skin. You smell of adventure and dirt and momma's lemonade, and I want to hug you until you can't breath -- suck the life out of us so we'll remain this fresh forever.

Like a shard of wood has ruptured something already crippled inside me, I feel a kind of agony that I can't recall ever feeling before. It's a strange sort of revelation, like a fever too close to the lungs. Breathing becomes a chore I'd never had to wake up early for before. I don't want to wake; hit snooze, sleep forever. Your words are like a source of energy that I just hadn't found before. Being starved of them is like healing from a wound; a ruptured progress that just failed to reach some kind of completion. Discomfort - a blow to the head that knocked me for six and then six more again. Old tales help the wound to gli

A skelf pierces my brittle skin as we sit cross-legged on the corroded floorboards. The touch is not too tender; a feeling of numb, perhaps because I'm just not really there? Your callow eyes have never looked so bright; they illuminate only all the wonders of the world. I want to absorb myself in such purity, be whole with you and the unripe earth. Spilled Bourbon gives a shine to the sullied walls, almost painting the story of which we've just created; of belly aches and stained cheeks, of weakness and of loss. Who'd have known our fragmented tales could almost be duplicates? Midnight's the most delicate of times, where even t

Astute and aware, he stood glaring at the morning sun, like no man had ever witnessed such power before. Petals lay twisted in his aged palm, like seeds of an ancient flower that could never reach bloom. His son, a man of many ages now, stood by his side with the kind of grace that even angels find hard to flourish; - they are the masters of their soul - together, they realise that life is but one story, an idea they failed to attain alone.