Kal-El
21-02-08, 01:43 PM
[What the stars tossed, salt-casual, onto the not-black of the not-night suggest could be love, but I can't read them.]
This is not a love poem,
not-love, a not-love poem.
Falling waist deep into February
stomping the signatures of lost years
in footprints on the pristine present-
this, not-night has become electric
with memories smashing through
the thin ice of teenage alchemy,
charged, with the possibility of
heartache,
frostbite,
or even a complete skeleton
of our separate childhoods
frozen underneath.
we, are the miners of nostalgia, now.
But in this not-night,
flushed
with the subtle city lights,
out here,
where our separate homes used to stand,
before the shame of
trailer trash, or
sunken lives
or broken glass,
we used to play.
(this is not a love poem, not-love, this is not how love works in the movies)
somehow, when I was dragging you
back, across the white field
of, NOW, the snowy sleeping hills of
our newborn responsibility,
birthed backwards, breeching into
wide streets and big houses,
I fell.
Not, with a boom, or a crash,
or a crunch, or a scream,
but a splash-
into the rich dark mud of our
trailer park pasts,
and your laugh is shaming the
careful silence of this not-night,
and the muck that has sucked me back
into childhood engulfs
the not-black in the smell
of old bones
and sleeping roots.
We two,
splattered elbow deep and sopping thick,
are learning love
in spite of
the February cold,
in spite
of your fears
and my mistakes,
in spite of
the not-night
and the mud-soaked snow.
I drove us here,
but you let me wear your coat.
Source (http://justaphase.deviantart.com/)
This is not a love poem,
not-love, a not-love poem.
Falling waist deep into February
stomping the signatures of lost years
in footprints on the pristine present-
this, not-night has become electric
with memories smashing through
the thin ice of teenage alchemy,
charged, with the possibility of
heartache,
frostbite,
or even a complete skeleton
of our separate childhoods
frozen underneath.
we, are the miners of nostalgia, now.
But in this not-night,
flushed
with the subtle city lights,
out here,
where our separate homes used to stand,
before the shame of
trailer trash, or
sunken lives
or broken glass,
we used to play.
(this is not a love poem, not-love, this is not how love works in the movies)
somehow, when I was dragging you
back, across the white field
of, NOW, the snowy sleeping hills of
our newborn responsibility,
birthed backwards, breeching into
wide streets and big houses,
I fell.
Not, with a boom, or a crash,
or a crunch, or a scream,
but a splash-
into the rich dark mud of our
trailer park pasts,
and your laugh is shaming the
careful silence of this not-night,
and the muck that has sucked me back
into childhood engulfs
the not-black in the smell
of old bones
and sleeping roots.
We two,
splattered elbow deep and sopping thick,
are learning love
in spite of
the February cold,
in spite
of your fears
and my mistakes,
in spite of
the not-night
and the mud-soaked snow.
I drove us here,
but you let me wear your coat.
Source (http://justaphase.deviantart.com/)