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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
April 13, 2012
saudade is a curious vignette on love by ~SocraticSynapses.
Featured by ikazon
Suggested by Magnius159
Literature Text
Last week, you showed up with the thunder on my doorstep.
Your voice was so drenched with the rain that I almost didn't recognize the way you said my name. It hung in the air like an incomplete sentence, like something unfamiliar, like you were so lost from trying to find everything we left behind and piece it back together that you couldn't find me in your heart anymore. It was pouring and the power was out and I was so tired of watching the world fall apart from outside my windows that I let you back inside my arms and inside my senses, and your bones were shaking as you clung to me and told me how good it felt to come back home.
There was something forced in our actions, as if we were going through the motions of something we had practiced a hundred times before. Your lips were all orchestrated movements against mine and the arch of your back and shudder of your breath felt rehearsed, so that when you lay tangled and spent in my bedsheets I let my mouth wander the terrain of your shoulder and tried to trace our timeline back to the moment I stopped loving you, to the moment you became a memory of someone else's lifetime. I kissed your skin and wondered when you became a brief, familiar instant that passed over me like a shadow.
I should admit that when you were gone the next morning, I didn't look for you. I drank my coffee like nothing happened and locked my door when the sun set; I turned off the porch lights and slept on the couch in case my pillowcase still smelled like the soft waves of your hair. Three nights ago, I pressed my hipbones into a shift stick and fogged up the windows when my lips collided with someone new in the front seat of her car, and I think maybe I scared her because I think I kissed her as if she were you, and honestly, I didn't want to.
Tonight, the heavens feel heavy and the sky is getting darker and I'm hoping that the worst of you has passed. I'm hoping that this is the calm and not the storm, and maybe one day I'll wake up without feeling the aftershocks of your natural disaster.
Your voice was so drenched with the rain that I almost didn't recognize the way you said my name. It hung in the air like an incomplete sentence, like something unfamiliar, like you were so lost from trying to find everything we left behind and piece it back together that you couldn't find me in your heart anymore. It was pouring and the power was out and I was so tired of watching the world fall apart from outside my windows that I let you back inside my arms and inside my senses, and your bones were shaking as you clung to me and told me how good it felt to come back home.
There was something forced in our actions, as if we were going through the motions of something we had practiced a hundred times before. Your lips were all orchestrated movements against mine and the arch of your back and shudder of your breath felt rehearsed, so that when you lay tangled and spent in my bedsheets I let my mouth wander the terrain of your shoulder and tried to trace our timeline back to the moment I stopped loving you, to the moment you became a memory of someone else's lifetime. I kissed your skin and wondered when you became a brief, familiar instant that passed over me like a shadow.
I should admit that when you were gone the next morning, I didn't look for you. I drank my coffee like nothing happened and locked my door when the sun set; I turned off the porch lights and slept on the couch in case my pillowcase still smelled like the soft waves of your hair. Three nights ago, I pressed my hipbones into a shift stick and fogged up the windows when my lips collided with someone new in the front seat of her car, and I think maybe I scared her because I think I kissed her as if she were you, and honestly, I didn't want to.
Tonight, the heavens feel heavy and the sky is getting darker and I'm hoping that the worst of you has passed. I'm hoping that this is the calm and not the storm, and maybe one day I'll wake up without feeling the aftershocks of your natural disaster.
Literature
couldn't blue
i draw a picture of
tomorrow morning:
a man in a silver box sells
75 cent coffee and bad bagels.
his shirt is the kind of blue no one ever
tried to name a crayon after.
dust-plastic blue,
tried to love you
(couldn't)
blue.
and the morning is that same color,
the color of canned lightning-bugs and
unfiltered cigarettes and desire,
because that is all you
draw with couldn't blue.
i pay him 1.25 in change and purse-lint
so that a fourth-world factory can make more
silver boxes to sell more things
more stale blueberry muffins.
and he will keep gathering change
in 75 cent purse-lint increments
in the small sinking townships of
Literature
Romancing Cotton
Someone told me that the balled-up almost was growing inside her like
a sapling, that soon the girl would be all swell and wet. What she said
was, "don't leave". Her ego was a white sheet caught on a branch, the
type of fabric my mother treated with contempt. Frippery, beautiful
but impractical: keeping it alive was like trying to catch a bubble with
dry hands.
The wind carried the sickly smell of opium and morning sickness,
signals of a spring in which fingers like white spiders cradled
the beginning of bloom. Hope seemed at once skin-near and star-far.
What I offered her was not a marriage proposal, it was a murder
o
Literature
Regulars
Jon and Carol came in as they do
every day
she clutching a bit of cloth to
her face and being unable
to give me an honest look and
Jon being overly enthusiastic about
his coming meal
(I am a goddess because I
bring them food.)
They met each
other outside the bathroom,
gazed across the table with a fifty
year old expression
and the only emotion I have
ever heard in Carol's
ancient, cracking voice
is when she calls him baby
Repeatedly I wonder, if or when
I give up my mind
to age and black eyes,
will we do this? Drink tea
with too much sugar
and have a waitress that will
be overly concerned if we
don't show our wrink
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saudade- n., portuguese refers to the feeling of longing for something or someone that you love and which is lost
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I assume you are familiar with the album by Thievery Corporation.