Alphabet Soup Minuscule

The Laundry Maid

Drops of Red

I feel the warm droplets of your red,
As you lay before me un- engaged,
Your body slowly decreases.

I saw the signs long ago,
That our chance for triumph was slight.
Yet, still I bleed.
And still, I pray in hopes that your pulses will rise strong again.

Even though resiliency and breath is absent,
My heart can only surrender to itself,
And those who wish to claim it.
For there lie victories all around us,
Waiting to be sung and celebrated.

These deficiencies are great,
And further hinder our ability to cross the river before us.
For the water is too deep,
And the time has carried on leading us to a new kind of thinking.

In our darkest hours we choose to lay awake with only memories,
Instead of pleasures.
For we have lost our maps,
And our voice.

Between the murmurs, rain, and moonlight

The murmur of my heart is strong tonight,
I feel its intensity in my gut,
As the tips of my fingers gently rest on my left oblique,
My palm rises up and down with each breath.

I curse at the moonlight on the ceiling,
At the stars that peer in my window, mocking me for lying alone.
Content, that they have a place.
My lips curl down somewhat,

One small tear makes a path down my right cheekbone,
It becomes tangled up in my side burn.
As if it was lost in another’s embrace.
It feels warm at first,
Then it just becomes cold, dried up.

I listen to the rain and,
Spinning blades of a fan crying and mimicking wind.
It is not you, whispering goodnight.
It is not you, with your paunch, telling me you love me.

Between the murmurs, rain, and moonlight,
I remember that this skin is still soft and,
My heart is still solid.
And that there is nothing more clear, than a teardrop in a side burn.

The Rain That Never Fell

Our colors were bright at first.
As the sun shined on our faces,
Slowly, we broke through the ground that held us.
One species of you, and one of me.
We bloomed quickly in the fall,
Our roots were wound so tightly around one another,
Like a mother’s arm.
Yet, we never bloomed.
Instead, we quietly thirsted for the rain that never fell,
And we starved for the time we never seemed to give.
I have been left here, a propagation of one.
In this sullied vase,
Cut off and left to dry.
But alas, I am blooming now.
My color electric crimson,
This scent I carry is thick like pudding.
To which you will never smell again.
My lonesome stranger.

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