#prasannawrites

With the waning light of the moon stripping flesh from my bones, puddling into blackened grief – I wonder, do you carry any blame as the flashpoint to all of this? You betrayed your bestowed promise, your words drive over me like the sun ceasing dawn’s solace. Do you feed your guilt with what’s left of me? Is there any sweetness left that you can still savour? You take the night sky, soaking it in silence, gently pressing the sepia out of it and leave it to air dry on a clothesline – Have you lost your tolerance for the nostalgia of what once was? Did you bury me beneath the fireflies grave? Or did you capture me in infrared light? [...] Are you still there?

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Where is the first snowfall of December?

I waited, tongue out, for snow on the first,

and again on the second;

but not even birthday wishes brought

snowflakes from the stubborn grey sky.

Autumn held onto December with a copper fist,

knuckles tarnishing green as winter fought

to take hold. I knew snowy December well

enough to trust that a storm was imminent.

So I waited, tongue out, prepared

to catch the first flakes. The sky broke open,

but it was not snowflakes that my tongue caught.

Instead, December sent me a mouthful of raindrops.

Thank you @prasannawrites for the birthday wishes and prompt! 🥳

❄️ EDIT: it’s here!

😱😵🥳

i pour myself a cup of coffee, watching the cream entangle itself in the coffee like how i get caught up in your words. i find myself envious as I forget to drink the coffee, wishing if only I could forget myself like that too. i pick the cup up, spilling it onto the table, it quickly puddles into the same shape of the bruise that you left on my skin inadvertently.

what does it mean?

i fold a dish cloth in half, and wipe the spill up, wringing it in the sink, all the while wondering: where are you to wring all my worries? is November treating you well? i know the ocean looks good on you, but have you been keeping warm? who's wringing your worries? have you eaten lately?

Prompt from @writeblrcafe BLACK COFFEE:

I know you tuck away clippings of chrysanthemums before winter nips away at them, killing them now so they’ve only known beauty. And perhaps you forgot how you used to create stereograms of images you cherished, hanging them on your walls just to stay in the depths of your sanity. The wild eccentricities of an artist; you bestow art in everything. Only you would think to create a mosaic masterpiece from the shattering of y/our peace. The way your dance moves change with every thunder strike outside your window leaves the world bewildered and still, under storming skies. You’re a slave to every whim, you know nothing of why the rainclouds brood, yet you dance to their melodies. You swear your heartstrings are puppeteered by some great unknown, and I’m inclined to believe you. The revolution of your art stirs you towards an unknown horizon; where your feet shuffle in an ocean of creations, and your fingers trail the slow sinking sky. You've found your infinity.