|—||Tati Bernardi. (via millenaires)|
I am learning that although
there are people who love
being made into metaphors,
the majority prefer a pretty girl
to prose or poetry—
they do not want my figures of
speech, they do not waste time
wishing for words on candles or
shooting stars, and can live as
peacefully as possible without
ever being written of, die with
nothing on their tombstones
and no love ever having been
weaved into language in
If you agree…
I’ll meet you at the edge of this city
And pretend that things never end.
Like mornings spent daydreaming
I’m dancing with memories.
Slight smiles and open eyes
Sometimes I stop to admire you
Like the moon hiding behind
Morning clouds to get a glimpse
Of the sun.
Fill the mirror like a jar, with a
saline solution of tears wrung
from my saturated lashes, to
preserve my flaws in once I’m
submerged in its glassy depths.
Inspect them at your leisure.
Observe me, your defective
specimen, for some twisted,
vindictive pleasure. Will I sink