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Literature Text
I'm sitting here with an open notebook in front of me, because I can't write properly unless I have lined paper and a firm surface to write on that won't make the pen nib slip around. At least the paper is that nice, worn yellowish color instead of the plain white that most notebooks have to offer - or worse! - a drab grey.
I want this to be perfect for you, but I feel very shy just thinking about the level of effort that goes into a gesture that looks so easy in films.
I put down the pen on the paper and write. The first word is the hardest. Then the first sentence takes that role, and then the second sentence... I spell out each word laboriously, and pause for a long time between them. After ten lines, I think I've gotten my point across. And my hand's begun to ache.
I set the pen aside and rotate my wrist to get the ache out. The words on the page look shaky towards the end, and they begin to slant to one side unattractively despite my best handwriting. In the end, the message felt more important than the artistry, but it's still a little embarrassing to look at the end product.
Carefully, I fold the inner edge of the paper and tear it out of the notebook. With my eyes on the instructive diagrams on my laptop screen, I fold the paper in half to make a square, and then continue to fold it into a flower shape.
I would have folded a million paper flowers for you if I knew my hands wouldn't wear out on the twenty-third or so. I would have told you about all the things I feel about you, with one idea encased in every flower, and strung them together into a garland to be strung around the ceiling of your room, or hopefully some other worthy position of honor.
I finish the one I have committed to making for now, and examine it in the light. The writing shows up in some of the creases, just a few letters to hint at the entire message. Very carefully, I set it down, and prepare to sleep to ready myself for tomorrow, which will hopefully see your gift in your hands at last.
I want to give you my feelings through grand gestures, but this is quite enough for now. It may be silly and overly whimsical, but I hope it makes you smile.
I want this to be perfect for you, but I feel very shy just thinking about the level of effort that goes into a gesture that looks so easy in films.
I put down the pen on the paper and write. The first word is the hardest. Then the first sentence takes that role, and then the second sentence... I spell out each word laboriously, and pause for a long time between them. After ten lines, I think I've gotten my point across. And my hand's begun to ache.
I set the pen aside and rotate my wrist to get the ache out. The words on the page look shaky towards the end, and they begin to slant to one side unattractively despite my best handwriting. In the end, the message felt more important than the artistry, but it's still a little embarrassing to look at the end product.
Carefully, I fold the inner edge of the paper and tear it out of the notebook. With my eyes on the instructive diagrams on my laptop screen, I fold the paper in half to make a square, and then continue to fold it into a flower shape.
I would have folded a million paper flowers for you if I knew my hands wouldn't wear out on the twenty-third or so. I would have told you about all the things I feel about you, with one idea encased in every flower, and strung them together into a garland to be strung around the ceiling of your room, or hopefully some other worthy position of honor.
I finish the one I have committed to making for now, and examine it in the light. The writing shows up in some of the creases, just a few letters to hint at the entire message. Very carefully, I set it down, and prepare to sleep to ready myself for tomorrow, which will hopefully see your gift in your hands at last.
I want to give you my feelings through grand gestures, but this is quite enough for now. It may be silly and overly whimsical, but I hope it makes you smile.
Literature
the love affair
life slides under the door and
I think about you not knowing how to love
and touching a person's sleeping eyelids
to change a dream, to lie here with you
under a silent oak tree, the sunlight
has begun to breathe and I am digging you a grave
for your past and your future, I am
holding you here, the trunk of my car open to let the sweet
sound of a song rise into the
air, it is rushing by
too swiftly
and I have premonitions or
I just got lucky or everything
means something
nothing vanishes without a trace
I hold despair in the palm of my hand and cannot dance
without spilling it onto the floor, it
seeps into the carpet
but you
Literature
Hearts on Her Breath
my bottom ribs dig into the counter-top
i exhale bluish smoke
{wonderfully//desperatelywonderfully}
onto the kitchen window
both my lonely eyes search
{delicately//desperatelydelicately}
for your finger-paint hieroglyphics
my knuckles morph into baby teeth, threatening to burst from taut skin
it's not that i'm tense.
it's not that i'm used to you holding me up to see out this window.
it's not that all the color from my upper body is draining, dripping, and pooling
on the linoleum between my legs.
it's just that
i want to know in my heart that when you're eighty and you have your ruddy grandkids making carpet angel
Literature
dear diary, i fell again today
i want to be beautiful by math's standad
because math is what makes the world go
'round and, my god, how i want to be the
reason your world keeps turning, even though
words are far more important than math, and i'm
really no good at either.
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© 2010 - 2024 Shamziel
Comments10
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I love it.