Enchantment

Enchantment

You’d run the shower all night if it sounded like rain on your window, the clouds weeping happiness that winters cold heart had melted. Loving us right through the bottom of our feet and the tops of our heads, feeling how each drop feels instead of feeling how it feels to be wet.

Rising Change

You swear that if he stood in the West that’s where the sun would rise. Then you remember that you’re also watching a sunset from the wrong side of the world. Now you wonder if a ball of fire in the sky wants to resign it’s position. You think that if you saw a new colour for the first time it would feel the same as when you saw him for the third, and the thirtieth, and the three-hundredth time. Then you remember that pink used to be your favourite, but now it’s blue. Now you realize it’s not the pigments that have changed, but you. You think about how when the sun sleeps you love red, but when it wakes you love lavender.

Caring For The Sky

I wonder if it’s difficult for the sun to rise every morning, if he has a routine of coffee or a snooze button he allows himself to press only three times. I wonder if he knows how even though there is challenge in change, the sky is so beautiful. And I wonder if he’s still lovers with the moon, or do we only have the night because they grew apart. Is it awkward for him to see her in the sky sometimes before he’s settled for the night? Does he choose the colours he paints the sky with every night?

I wonder if he’s sleeping angry when he set’s bright red. 
I wonder if he misses her when he wakes up tangerine.

 

I worry for the moon, carrying around the weight of the tides. I wonder how she got tied down and if she’s just strong or determined. I worry for all the blame we put on her for our grievances when she’s full, if she’s ever confessed to such mischief or simply never denied the accusations. I wonder if she is vying for the sun’s affections with every wax and wane, trying to please his appetite. 

I worry the stars are too far away to be friends.
I worry she can’t see her reflection in the ocean. 

When Your Mouth Is Cold

You miss him. At 11PM when he’s laying beside you and you wait too long after eating ice cream to kiss him with a cold mouth, because somehow that means “I love you” without having to say it. You miss him when he’s lost in his thoughts or when you’re lost in yours and the only good thing is that you get the missing in now. You’re begging the universe that you won’t have to too much in the future. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you miss him the most right before he tells you he has to leave at 6:30AM to move the care because even though nothing changes your mouth is now warm, and wet, and lonely and you’re forgetting what it’s like to have his words melting on your tongue. Even though you swore everything he said was tattooed on the inside of your cheek. You miss him when the bed is empty and warm. 

You Know What I’m Thinking, But This Isn’t What You Think

read my writing guys, tell me what you think!

FOREST E. GREENWELL

This is not a love story. 

This is not a poem, or a novel, or a song. I don’t know what it is but it is none of those things. 

What this is, though, is a collection. A collection of explanation, and occasionally some apologies.

Like how I am sorry that when I am with you I often can’t speak because the words in my mind don’t come out as smoothly as they are thought, and how my tongue trips over them. They are prisoners running and running and slamming hard into my teeth; getting caught. And when I kiss you I’m trying to release them and I hope that these words run through your bloodstream and that you understand and when I bite your lip I’m trying to get the residue of the vowels out of my mouth before they become to sweet and let me rot. 

When you…

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You Know What I’m Thinking, But This Isn’t What You Think

This is not a love story. 

This is not a poem, or a novel, or a song. I don’t know what it is but it is none of those things. 

What this is, though, is a collection. A collection of explanation, and occasionally some apologies.

Like how I am sorry that when I am with you I often can’t speak because the words in my mind don’t come out as smoothly as they are thought, and how my tongue trips over them. They are prisoners running and running and slamming hard into my teeth; getting caught. And when I kiss you I’m trying to release them and I hope that these words run through your bloodstream and that you understand and when I bite your lip I’m trying to get the residue of the vowels out of my mouth before they become to sweet and let me rot. 

When you question me for how I look at you and I tell you it’s nothing, follow your gut. You know what I’m thinking. I’m sorry I lie. I can’t handle the truth. You know what I’m thinking. I’m afraid it’s too much, that it will come down like a tidal wave and we will not be strong enough breakers. I’m sorry I’m not afraid to feel but that I am afraid to speak. I’m sorry there is any fear in me at all, and if I can console any hurt let it be that I also feel safe. With you. 

For every time I pick a fight, know I am picking you. For every time I am short on words, on breath, on life – understand that I sing to the fucking moon every night you are not with me hoping that one day I will make it up to you because I am not lacking in determination what I am lacking in courage.

And while the moon is encouraging others, I praise every cloud that crosses the sky because I don’t want you to see me for what I am, and I am jealous of every ray of light that gets to touch you in place I cannot, when I cannot. And it’s so sadistic that I love that you’re broken but the thing is I don’t think you’ll cut me up. Despite your warning label you’ve been an emollient to yourself and your rough edges have been smoothed out. I want to drink you up like too much of a good thing, I think that would be the best way to go. 

When I wake up in the morning I don’t think about how lucky I am. I don’t think about how handsome you are or that I want to touch your hip. I think about how soft your eyes feel on mine and how this is the one thing I never dreamed of and the one thing I never want to lose.

Am I doing this right yet? I’m sure it isn’t a love story. 

Selective Memory

Cut throat razors will remind me of you,

like cut throat words remind you of me.

I will remember yogurt scooping,

cake bringing, ice cream eating,

and messy room.

But how will you remember pushy,

on-time, omelet making,

and clean freak.

When you might be remembering

skinny dipping, house rules, nice bum,

doesn’t like chocolate,

and daddy issues.

But then again you might think I remember

socially awkward, baggy pants, always late,

big mistakes, you deserve more

and nice eyes.

What I know we know is special chocolate chip cookies,

stigmas, stahp, late night Wendy’s,

cry-laughing, medium double-double, 

and eskimo kisses.

Safety-pinned socks will remind me of you,

like safety-pinned seams remind you of me.

These Are Not Artists

FOREST E. GREENWELL

Inside out. Smeared on walls, canvas, journals. A bloody piece of “art”. Not red but black and blue. Inconsistent and non-blandiloquent. Falling apart how snow falls from the sky, hitting the ground like tears running away from eyes. This is what happens when you ask someone else to fix you – they get bored and you look fun and here’s the thing. Here’s the thing. The things is, these people aren’t engineers. They are gamblers and prostitutes and homeless and they will use you, not build you up. You will not be featured in a gallery, just a grave. And this is incipient. The only fixing to be had are the patches in their own lives, the plug in the hole in the dam and all the pressure is on you. You are not a corner, not a game, not a home. You are used, blue, and black. 

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