To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished. (Roland Barthes)
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I was a bubble wrap girl, kept my eyes on your little world, looked after your laughter, to keep it untouched by poison, slowed down your breath, to make it the same frequency like my pulse, and scared the hounds from doorstep of your brain, to let you sleep at last, sat in silence, it has grown torns, didnt say a single word but called it the highest wisdom.
And later that night
you tattooed my tight, with the heart flying in the breeze, you drove the Big Vagon through the northern sky, I sat behind you, you made me watch your back and I hated you for that, you gave me bouquet of spaceflowers and they grew between my toes and blossomed around my ankles, in that speed all this sacred
quietness felt down on my head like golden rain, and we were drunk and squelched the stars under our wheels, I dreamt a dream of stabbing and shoulders, didnÂ´t make a single move, but called it the the biggest power IÂ´ve ever had.
And from that night,
I was enclosed with tendrils of those flowers of yours, from my heart a thousands of wolves howled for the moon we left behind, praying for the wings of bird, but I keep it secret for you, and said you do not owe me, the sound of my bare feet on your floor, it will haunt my mind forever more, and on my torn lips taste of blood blood blood. I waited for some permission to leave, didnÂ´t feel any relief but called it the most crying love IÂ´ve ever felt.
For its absurd
For its transcendental
For its mellow like not feeling love at all.