Hello dear,
Your words to my ears are precious and full of diamonds.
You have lost all the skin down to your knuckles, but still you seem so beautiful and polished. Explosions, flames engulfing you and me. You tore up my heart, and left beauty as we waltzed atop my veins and arteries. You were more than the woman of my dreams, more than a figment of my imagination. You were real. Skeletally structured with muscles and skin, your existence was blank, you were surrealism; embodied.
An atom split in 1917 and ever since then I’ve been pining for you to come back to me.
My toes buried deep into this Earth in which I thrive, while my fingers stretch up like branches holding leaves. These pine needles I feed stab harder than gardening sheers.
I’ve been split down the middle, You are my Adam’s rib, Nothing fits in the spot you once sat, So I’ve been left Suffering from being said no to. Drowning in the rejection. Acceptance is what I’ve been searching for. Euphoria, is not being alone, to me.
But I still love you down to your nucleus.
While you blow away, mushroom clouds of men who were no match to the love that radiates from your shattered open half-life spewing wounds.
Each man had transmuted himself from prior elements just to impress you.
You see love is the first glance through the eye of a needle, you may never find what you’re looking for in the stack of hay, but You could spot me within a mile through a binocular of this sewing spine.
I love you nuclear.
Soul mates to never be romantically evolved enough to be involved. When love travels at the speed of sight, light and sound prove meaningless. Meaningless to the taste of your lips. Meaningless like our first kiss. I refuse to turn my back to your back, for when the turning of ones back opens my line of sight to a whole new dimension of realities Whom I don’t want to see, I’ll spend my nights being constantly reminded of the face which still stands out in this ocean among seas.
In which women and oceans and atoms mean nearly nothing to the molecules that share the same space that we did during our time, when we were all just floating.
About the Creator
Joke Marfsky
NE poet. 26. Aspiring filmmaker. Bartender by trade. Mentally inverted metro-pan/asexual.
📷@jk.marv 🐥@marfsky
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