Silk Flowers in Water
The restaurant was dark with a red hue eavesdropping all around. The neon sign in the window hummed like the kind of fluorescents made to kill bugs. The aquarium near the host stand kept burping: it was too green and it ran in pitches of white noise.
The glasses on our table were tall with soap scum walls and unfiltered water lukewarm. He put his hand palm up on the ivory tablecloth near them and I landed mine in it.
He looked at me and smiled with his lips still closed. I had never made eye contact with anyone for that long before. He looked beyond where I could see. I was afraid to look away and lose the moment, but I was so intimidated that I knew I would never remember it.
I scooted closer in my seat despite the round table between us, and he took a heavy bite of air.
Then time went blurry.
I wish now that I could speak then because maybe, then, it wouldn’t have ended that way.
Enough with this dark night.
Drop the needle on some vinyl and breathe in Roberta Flack. Black silk brushes against my thigh, smooth and languid against the pale.
Trains screech, and run through these streets, bold in their atmosphere.
The earth spins silent on its axis, apologetic to none.
My melancholy birthright.
Fyodor Dostoevsky was a renowned Russian novelist, journalist, and philosopher, born on November 11, 1821, in Moscow. He grew up in a highly religious and intellectual family, and his father was a doctor at a hospital for the poor.
After studying engineering and military science, Dostoevsky turned to literature and published his first novel, "Poor Folk," in 1846, which gained him critical acclaim. However, his writing and political activities led him to be arrested in 1849 for being involved in a liberal socialist group, and he was sentenced to death.
At the last minute, the sentence was commuted to four years in a Siberian labor camp. This experience had a profound impact on Dostoevsky's life and work, and he later wrote about it in his semi-autobiographical novel "The House of the Dead."
After his release, Dostoevsky became deeply religious and began writing his most famous works, including "Crime and Punishment," "The Brothers Karamazov," and "Notes from Underground." These novels explore the complexities of human nature and the struggles of individuals to find meaning in a world that often seems cruel and indifferent.
Dostoevsky's work has had a profound influence on literature and philosophy, and he is widely considered one of the greatest writers of all time. He died on February 9, 1881, in St. Petersburg, Russia.
The Man In The Moon
Some people believe in the rulers of their religions.
They look to them for strength & guidance with every life decisions.
Then we have the skeptics, who say the hell with that, no Im not controlled to fit in.
They run their own show the way they want, the outcome basis is going on a limb
Not me though, I guess you can say Im one of the few since Im not sure who decides whether I sink or swim.
However, for everything else I like to believe the man in the moon has a hand in my requisitions.
Since I was a child I would tell him every one of my secrets and inhibitions.
He shone Just enough light into my room keeping away monsters that may have been hidden.
The man in the moon lured me into dreamland, while guiding the tides ashore, crashing in synchronized rhythm.
He‘s seen it all, every bloody war, happy nights, sad heart breaks, dinosaurs and loving kindred.
Somehow he hangs so strongly in that dark night sky, as paintings all depicted.
To me the man in the moon seems the wisest of them all, still boasting of his consistence.
just a moment
you took my hand and showed me how the sun’s light can warm instead of burn,
and just for a while, i felt what it is like to be sheltered unconditionally.
i looked at you in awe, with all these untamed feelings coming over me like a rush of the ocean’s waves sweeping me under for just a moment.
just a moment.
for once, being under the current of someone’s love didn’t feel suffocating and heavy. as I came up not for air but to see your eyes gazing back at me, i knew it would be foolish of me to turn and walk away from this cosmic dance between us.
so, I continued to dance with you on the rings of Saturn, allowing my heart to be set free.
What I do know is my soul has lost the will to resist you.
Your tenderness covers my invisible wounds.
Your hand holds my disfigured heart ever so gently.
Now I understand what it means to surrender all that I am
for precious moments with you.
I was lost in the dark on this path until your tender flame broke up the darkness surrounding me.
color-coded between the ribs
meet me on the equinox
somewhere between then and now,
where your whispers taste like powder sand
and liquid stars.
slipping my fingers into the marron
and cobalt streaked skies
slowly dipping my toes in your love
ever so gently, but with a blazing soul.
footprints on the moon,
imprinted over the kaleidoscope of your heart
my ever raging, peaceful midnight sun
there are no words that we humans have created that will adequately encompass falling in love for the first time.
the closest thing we have are butterflies, the idea of falling head over heels, the world gaining colour, and all those cliches.
but really, it’s not the same thing.
being in love is painful and so cruel, it’s unrelentingly kind and sickly sweet like honey. it’s dancing in the rain and then dealing with the squelching of shoes after. it’s eating candy until your stomach hurts, and laughing loudly in public more than you should.
it’s utterly everything.
Today, I missed a step
I just lost track
the page went blank
Not in smoke
Not in vapor
but not in sand
Should I say ‘stained’?
Not in grease
Not in paint
All I know is you left no memories
of your entrance and your exit!
#memories #love # lost # gone #love