I wrote this for creative writing – sort of inspired by ‘The Lark Ascending’

you take my hand like you’ve
got strings instead of fingers and
my palms are made of rosin.

I take your hand like I would
hold a violin bow and
your knuckles beg to be played.

Baby, I know there are days
when your chest is a concert hall
and all I’ve gotta do is hear the

performance of your heart
but before I get there let me start
lower, because sometimes

all the answers in the world hide
in the hidden parts of you
like the ones finely tuned

to the staccato step of your shoes.
Or let me start higher because
an orchestral heart means

a mind behind the eyes that must
sit in the gods.

a mix of words that make your heart do that squeezy thing in your chest cos they're just so damn happy, and words that make you wanna slam your hands on the table cos hell yeah

01. shake the dust anis mojgani 02. gorgeous rives 03. hurling crowbirds at mockingbirds buddy wakefield 04. s for lisp george watsky 05. thinking about you mike taylor 06. single life dufflyn 07. dear 12-year-old self stephanie dogfoot 08. how it ends andrea gibson
listen

I forgot to say anything but ngl I’m kinda proud of myself so I will now – I took part in my first ever poetry slam last Thursday and came second! It was run by Farrago Poetry, and it was a lot less scary/a lot more fun than I thought it’d be. The winner was Sara Hirsch (p sure she has a wordpress but idk the url…) and she’s really brill and yeah :)) it was a great night *bounces*

if I became a collector the only thing
I’d be interested in putting in
gaps on shelves 
would be the tiny places your thoughts delve 
into, the tiny spaces where I can’t reach you
and sometimes I get sad my glass jars 
aren’t big enough for your butterfly heart
and even sadder when I realise how easy I am to pick apart
while you’re so together, forever, I never 
knew there could be people like us two who
half live in dark rooms 
and half explode in daylight, you’re the body of a kite 
I can’t reel in and keep
and I’m the string always slipping through your fingers,
you’re the half smile that lingers 
in my mind, you’re the missing pieces I can’t find
because the fuse blew and the lights died
and I know I could never collect you if I tried

When I say this, I swear it’s the truth
even now I’m scared of writing a poem for you
because I know that nothing I do
will ever be able to keep you on the page -
that ever since you asked to kiss me that day
you’ve been all the stray thoughts in my head,
every wrecked crease in my bedsheets
and there’s no way I can complete this poem
knowing that your heartbeat
can’t be caught on paper, or even in my head,
that a memory of the words you last said to me
won’t feel the same being read -
nothing’s enough when I can’t put your breath
in my inkwell, dip in my nib and spell out your smell
after the rain’s been at your back,
after there’s been a crack of lightning
outside the window and my face is pressed just below
your jaw, where every sound you make
sinks through the floor of my flesh
into my bloodstream, to make beams
of light in my nightmares, turn them into dreams,
you’ve sewn yourself into the seams of my eyelids,
I can’t blink without being blinded
by your smile and the look on your face
right before you cry, and I never wanna unpick
these stitches, I never wanna be convicted
of letting you go, you are snow
against my wrists on the nights the fever hits,
you are the pinprick of light in the middle of the mist
and I miss you, so much,
I wish you could see me trying to store every touch
you give in the pockets of my pores,
even when I know I’m about to overflow
I swear I can still hold more
of your shoulders grazing mine and the damp line
your lips make across my cheek before you speak
into my ear and I don’t know when my biggest fear
became not being able to hear you clearly -
that and going for too long without having you near me.
We are my unfinished poem
because I can’t end what I don’t ever want to stop going

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