August's Frozen Memories

       



Space BlanketsPurple clouds
draped over crescent hips--
bashful twin moons.   <da:thumb id="368071984"/>   <da:thumb id="366272513"/>   <da:thumb id="374223033"/>

   :: Deeply Whimsical ::Enchanted green kisses the lovers' dance.   <da:thumb id="379398691"/>   UnderfootNature's carpet cushioned summer's barefoot adventures.



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The WriterHe lived through prophetic fever dreams.  SoulmatesShe’d been walking for months, it seemed. Fingers tightening on the pendant around her neck, she paused, turning, trying to figure out which way to go. She’d been lonely all her life - no chances at grand romances, no meeting of eyes across the park, no sudden spark of warmth or a spike of cold… her friends all seemed to have found their soulmates close to home.
But not her.
Had she wandered too far? Had her soulmate perhaps died? Hadn’t yet been born? Would never be born?
She squeezed her eyes shut, holding back tears of frustration. She was all alone, and always would be. Might as well go home, go to work, forget about weddings and houses with
white picket fences and children playing in the yard.
***
Dust trailed after her as she hefted her knapsack. This had been stupid, taking another journey. Her fourth in the past ten years; she’d be thirty tomorrow. Why had she come this way, anyway?  Always circling the earth, hoping for even the slightest  You should date a guy who writesDate a guy who writes. Date a guy whose fingers are stained with ink, whose pockets are filled with pens, and whose eyes smile and dance with curiosity. Date a guy who notices things like the colour of your hair and the way you have your coffee, not because he has to, but just because it’s a habit of his to notice things. Date a guy who can barely get around a computer, but is expert with his word processor. It doesn’t matter; he prefers pen and paper anyway.
Find a guy who writes. You’ll find him just outside a library. He’ll like the idea of being outside, on the verge of a thousand worlds, a few steps away. He’ll love the idea of being outside, on the brink of one world, a few carefully placed letters away.
Or he will be inside a café. He doesn’t care whether it’s boutique or Gloria Jeans, moodily or well lit, though he likes it there especially when it’s raining. He will be the one with a notebook in one hand, pen in the other,  <da:thumb id="382070190"/>

cloudsin a train of slides,
my fourth grade teacher
showed the class
nimbus, cirrus, cumulus, stratus.
she said clouds are water
in crystal form.
she got it wrong.
clouds have eyes,
lashes
and tear ducts.
how does she explain
why it rained
that summer noon
when you sailed towards
the crescent moon?
the clouds and i cried
because we all knew
the moon will sail back
but this time without you.
© 15.March.2012   <da:thumb id="383655308"/>    We Traded Our Hearts for StarsFor every boy I ever kissed,
the trembling of her lips matches yours.
(Poet, breathe now.)
I should write this down,
the last piece I ever write about you.
You’ve been gone finding
constellations, ambitions, and things in between,
and this is me being brave,
dancing on the fire escape.
(I wore you like a bruise.)



A beautiful feature for all those beautiful artist's that hide on deviantART - thank you for sharing