Loving Like not

 

The Earth didn’t lock into place
upon our arrival;
still and fragile,
hushed in anticipation
of a prophecy writ in molten stone
and stamped into our mortal hearts.

the songs I hum of you and me
are not echoed back to me,
a technicolour monstrosity
in a sea of past forgotten technicolour monstrosities.

so the idea of destiny
in a universe that tends to entropy,
thirsting for chaos,
clamours of a grand design,
of twin lights, of meant-to-be
seem laughably naive.

I was not drawn to you because I was a moth
and you the flame,
because I was Icarus and you knew the way,
or because both our wings were the same dull grey.
Your touch doesn’t echo through me for all eternity,
not when I’m made brand new every few years
(months, weeks, days even)

My heart does not beat away from me,
cradled in careful hands, warm and not my own–
–my heart doesn’t do much of anything, really.
Except ache sometimes when it’s cold and I didn’t know.

I could fall in love with anything
many things,
(even you, sometimes I think.)
There are chemicals that do it for me.

But we can still laugh under a sun that doesn’t shine for us,
dance to beats out of sync with those of our hearts,
paint in colours that’ll fade on paper scraps superfluous.
How lucky to not have anything expected of us,
to still love in a world that will not remember.

All the time we could ever know
ever need
all to ourselves.
Without the weight of the cosmos
on closed eyelids we trace with our lips.

 

Yours Truly,
S.C.C.O.P

p.s kinda choppy but it was written in disjointed parts over several days so pls excuse.

 

50 Going On 100

“I read once that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand & the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is the way you move against me while you sleep & there are no words for that.”

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Comfortable silences are overrated.

There. I said it. Or a dude in a song did; either way:

I don’t like to indulge them.

Not when there are a million stars and twice as many constellations, not when the air can smell like the ocean even though there isn’t one for miles and miles, not when we could be laughing or–

“It feels like forever,” she says, eyes closed and hands clutching at the grass. “I feel like we’ve been coming up here for forever,” and it’s strange because she’s never been one for over-exaggerations but maybe she’s not here. “Hasn’t it been forever?” eyes open now but looking over a place that isn’t here, but someplace where that could be true. I shrug.
“It feels like forever,” she repeats, just because she can.
“Maybe,” I acquiesce. A beat. Then, “I’m bored.
“Wanna race to the river?” she asks, and then she’s off as I pull up, slower than I would have liked, behind her, our laughs ringing out as we shoot down the hill.

We have been coming up here forever. The ridiculous ribbons she insists on wearing for no other reason than the alliteration stream out behind her, much like my hair–displaced in a way I haven’t been for well over a couple years now. In the days of sketchy motels and blurry towns, the realization would have sent a jolt of panic up my spine but today (here), the familiarity slides smoothly into a hollow that had gone unannounced until it was gently removed.

I speed up just a little and don’t bother to refrain from gloating.

“Well of course you won, your legs alone could be 6 feet tall, you freak,” she gasps out between breaths once she’s finally at the bank and I shove at her until we both collapse, a heap of fluttery dresses and skirts and slightly torn t-shirts.

What feels like hours, but could quite possibly be mere minutes, pass as we catch our breaths, the sky a washed-out blue that’s so boring but so immensely reassuring that I forgive it for it.

“The Eskimos didn’t have a hundred words for snow, by the way,” I blurt out for some reason.
She’s understandably confused. “What?”
“There’s that quote you like, right? With the Eskimos and Egyptians? It’s a myth, I looked it up.” I don’t know who I’m punishing. If I am.
She’s squinting, “Oh, I know. It’s just nice to think it anyway, is all.”
“Hmm.” I start humming a song she starts tapping out on her knee.

 

“I read once that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand & the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is the way you move against me while you sleep & there are no words for that.”

Yours Truly,
S.C.C.O.P

P.S  What’s this??????? not??? a??? poem????
It’s barely like 500 words but hey, it counts!

you make me laugh but it’s not funny

With the dawn of winter, a series of births took place amidst the population on Earth. They gave rise to peculiar little children–the first on earth to not be perfectly Happy. Or Sad. Or Angry. These kids discovered desperation.

Those who gave birth to them–The Happy–did not understand. What was this–this grey fog their children writhed in silently, mechanically? What was this watered down imitation sunshine that bathed their houses and plants and roads? The Happy did not understand.

The Sad–who came before the birth of The Happy–were similarly flummoxed. What were hesitant smiles that did not perfectly contrast their misery? What was this tentative hope, hesitant optimism?

The ancestors of The Sad–The Angry–understood the newest people in a way the other two generations didn’t. Of course, their great grandchildren were still freaks as far as they were concerned, but they could see the method to their madness. They understood desperation, even if they were unfamiliar with the intermittent moments of apathy that followed.

The Happy, The Sad and The Angry all loved the newest people unconditionally. The Happy delighted in the way their fingers dipped in the colours and drew swirls of beautiful, bright madness in the air. The Sad wept with them when they sobbed the tears of the discontent and wailed as they cried the woes of the distressed. The Angry ranted with them against the injustice of the skies and the flesh, and the betrayals of the heart and the mind.

And to all this, I stood a spectator.

The newest people took off sometimes. You can stay in the same place and still find ways to leave people, it’s fairly simple. They took off in the still night, picking locks with pieces of hearts ripped empty and sharpened to a point; crystallised preservations you could hear over the dripping of the faucet if you listened hard enough.

They’d breathe in the night air and look at the stars and grasp comfort from lights long dead and so far. The Sad once told them that stars are just stars. Not dead lovers illuminating the dark.

The stars are just stars, but some flowers used to be people, The Angry would hurriedly placate. For instance, windflowers sprang forth when Adonis’ blood fell to the earth. The hyacinth used to be Hyacinthus, a victim of jealous rage, the narcissus, the lily, the lotus.

The kids laughed and wept and joked and threatened to choke on the air they inhaled. Some of them fell in love and forgot to be sad, others fell in love and forgot what it was to be happy, still others did neither and stared at the scenery. And this has been their story.

The End

Yours Truly,

sign-off