#raphaeliteocean

how do i score my devotion on heavenly bone so the archeologists feel the weight of your heart? my knife is not made for flesh, you must believe me. this word after word is my only prayer. we stitched ourselves together and waited for the tide to take us; two skeletons with lavender as bone marrow. nothing came except the dreams dancing above our heads, the future whistling through the sky. will anybody ever know? truly? do i care? this art is my hand-picked constellation, sentences strung together by fear and love and truth - brushed over with the cold rush of living. it has become the palette for our love’s portrait, the theory lingering could be told like fables. emulsified by parallels and peace, unpicked and unthreaded to never be forgotten.

do you ever feel like you are a city crammed in one person? a tug to a plethora of houses tears you into fragments as you walk down the dim and tangerine avenue, a tug that sits beneath skin crying through the night for solace. is that the heat we share? solace in its home? i am searching for an evolving puzzle piece that i can fit into, yet you hold me like the sand holds the ocean, how can i look into your eyes and not stitch our future? this ceramic needle is painted with our prophecies. do you know the silver along your tongue is meant for familiarities twin? did you know your first finger is meant to rest in our infant’s palm? i want to love everything with you. that’s what i would say to you if my heart could ravel itself up in time afterwards. i am all these people with all these wants and dreams tightly woven into a frame i can’t imagine myself living in. this skeleton is my only truth. i’ll ask you to brush past these flame touched irises and hold onto how i’m imagining you, i hope you take the ticket.

now you hang from my lips like the gardens of babylon. oh, to have prose dictate my greatest desire and weakest fear, and by weakest i mean it hangs loosely in my ribcage so nobody knows how much i fear true love’s kiss. there have been so many times i have known the tightness in the air was not my home yet i stayed, took it over the truth in the moment. am i afraid of the truth? or just the pain hurtling after it, following it like a shadow?

oh to be a muse…to float in and out of art as if it is mine and everybody else’s all at the same time. to be studied not for what i could be, or what i am not, but for the curve of my jaw and the tilt of my smile. to be studied is to be loved. to be learnt is to be loved. who am i to value love in this way when a muse is just a title and a title is just word? who am i to put such weight to words? who am i to pray to them? oh to be a muse…like a fairy fluttering through golden lights, like one sitting upon a tall Sacramento spruce in December. oh to be a muse, a muse made of magic.

quit writing poetry raph, you know i don’t read them. what do you mean you’re not searching the passers of the thames for a coat that i would wear? what do you mean you’re not looking for a footprint that could be mine? what do you mean you aren’t digging up the buried threads in your graveyard hoping for a silver that matches me? why do you love like a person and not a human? how do i sit and live in fantasy when all you do is live in reality? is the heart you live in the one in my chest or my head? are you sure you’re not scraping through every word looking for an authentic piece of me? how could you love me with a single glance? how is that possible?

I need to grow more comfortable with nuance. She’s tracing up my back and I shiver at the sensation. I’ve been trying to knit the amber vines far away from any angel of mine, yet here I am in this lake of want, swimming around the knives that carved my downfall. Loneliness moulds all the wrong choices and yet curling up to it feels so much colder than any conflict concept I’ve met. If I am constantly crawling towards progress, why aren’t my days filled with subtle touches and understanding? If I’ve grown to hate what I am, why do I treasure it so, as if another had ever worshipped it. Would you? Worship it i mean. Would you? These stories in my head are just shadows of what could never be and mimics of what I want with a soul mine is paralleling with every step towards seventeen. That mockingjay sings. That mockingjay sings uncertainty to that soul every sunset, do they hear it? Whisper one line and I’ll leave you alone forever - whisper one line and I’ll keep even your shadow in my sandstorm scene. I’ve skipped through too many flaming hoops, slick with gasoline, to know what feels right and wrong. Who am i to know authenticity as if it has ever known my name? If my blood stops running through the streets with transparency, and morphs into thick crimson rivers, would I be able to step through that threshold with more ease or none? Write me a poem, even two lines, that dictates your thoughts on who I have become. If you still feel that twist in your gut we named a long time ago, if its name remains, write me a story with a character called Silver, I’ll know and not tell the preacher. Promise me the lavender and i’ll do the rest. Goodnight.