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when she gets upset she calls me (if I’m not already there) and rambles in French tell me that’s not majorly sexy

so I’m off to listen to her talk in French over dinner I am like the luckiest girl ever

Sometimes she's so sarcastically melodramatic I can't handle it

Kate: This chocolate bunny is cheap, hollow and empty
Kate: Just like me
Me: .... You want me to get one?
Kate: Six

baby I know the world looks different from here
fake fluorescence hits the light of the sun, warring
in the sharp bleak divide between what is natural and not
[we are both]
and each morning you drag your teeth over the dawn
(bleached and on its way to being broken)
a disruption in the stillness of shattered glass
(it’s only water)

her head is on the pillow the same pillow
as mine and I didn’t know
two people could fit so closely
together until now and not feel the
pressure to push or pull [away]
and she’s half asleep talking about
Virginia Woolf and lightly kissing the
hollow of my neck and I never want
to leave that moment

but now I’m at a gas station washing
handprints off the windows of my car
and watching birds fly out of
florescent lighting hanging from a roof
with no walls hanging from the edges

she walks, waking
the surface dirt is sun-warmed, step then
apply weight, sink to cold earth foot bare. repeat to continue
forward—a general direction—aimless and unaware. 
she walks, waking

sea of dirt and corn stover, drowning she is
drowning. sink to knees mid-stride and mid-sea
she awoke, falling [from no great height]
empty husk forgotten in harvest to far from the
forest for deer, to far from the forest for anything
but rotting and re-falling, empty but awake
sea of dirt and corn stover, drowning she is

awake as the air slips from her lungs and is drawn
back with difficulty. awake, aware as molecules from 
Caesar’s last breath enter and exit and exit, 
awake as the grief rattles through her,
           a manifestation of saline on soil
awake as the dirt beneath her eyes grows darker
awake as the sun shifts angles on her skin
awake as the sound of an engine grows louder
awake as the wind carries the voice of a man
awake as the man fires a warning shot
awake as the warning is locked into an echoing noise

I traveled over 2,000 miles in a day and ended up in the same place,
different [same] posture—semi-prostrate in supplication.
though I hold no god[s] and have no faith save that which is
borrowed, frenzied and
fashioned from thin air 
in only the moments where
the sun hangs on the edge of the sky, empty and still

no  sunlight.
no  sunlight.

I cannot save her so I sit and stare at the place where
expression used to fall and rise and sweep and slow
the waves of a distant ocean. I cannot save her so I sit
still
still semi-prostrate in supplication

there is a grief that steals words from their sleep,
sound and solid on the bed of a tongue
turned to liquid, swallowed and kept down
through the retching storm of acid and bile
and when it rises in violent, nauseous protest
swallow hard, the silence, for there is nothing
to be done and even less to say

wintertangerinereview:

There are three weeks left in our IndieGoGo campaign— in order for Winter Tangerine to continue printing outstanding work, we need your support! 
We have wonderful perks available for donors, including copies of WTR and gracious handwritten letters from our editors. For the price of two cups of coffee, you can receive a PDF of WTR’s first volume! Help us continue to let Winter Tangerine be something that amplifies unique artistic voices— support Winter Tangerine, and support the current and next generations of art and writing. We cannot express our gratitude for your help!
Donate today! 

P.S. the link is actually indiegogo.com/projects/winter-tangerine-review!

wintertangerinereview:

There are three weeks left in our IndieGoGo campaign— in order for Winter Tangerine to continue printing outstanding work, we need your support!

We have wonderful perks available for donors, including copies of WTR and gracious handwritten letters from our editors. For the price of two cups of coffee, you can receive a PDF of WTR’s first volume! Help us continue to let Winter Tangerine be something that amplifies unique artistic voices— support Winter Tangerine, and support the current and next generations of art and writing. We cannot express our gratitude for your help!

Donate today!

P.S. the link is actually indiegogo.com/projects/winter-tangerine-review!

(via wildflowerveins)

We went stargazing way out in the country and it was so beautiful all of it