metaphorliteral: (we bleed the ink of subtle allegory)
Every night, I dream of love
and every morning wake into a nightmare.
I search for vibrations and frequencies. Will
tuning into the right wavelength bring me your voice
or merely lead me further into the desert?
I look up and see nothing but the glow

of the lights above the Arby's. I look down and see the glow
of your smile for me. What terrifying love
forces cacti to bloom, brings rain to the desert,
dispels for a moment this waking nightmare?
What power in the mouth which shapes the voice
that murmurs in all our ears, that will

hold our town together with force of will
and a private smile lit by the glow
of the "on-air" sign? Your sonorous voice
telling all of Night Vale about your love
for me is sort of a privacy nightmare,
but my romantic life was a barren desert

before I moved to this uncanny desert
town. Did some small part of me will
this impossible place into being-- some forgotten nightmare,
long ago demolished by the nightlight's glow?
Was some corner of my soul so desperate for love
that it conjured up this place and the voice

of my beloved Cecil-- the Voice
of Night Vale-- surrounded on all sides by desert
and monitored by the Sheriff's Secret Police, but willing to love
regardless of all the eyes and ears on us-- the kind of will
to love that makes the sky (mostly void, partially stars) glow
and reassures me with soft words when I have a nightmare.

When I got here, I thought this place was a nightmare.
I never thought that there would be a voice
to murmur my name affectionately, a hand to hold beneath the glow
of mystic lights, a man to walk beside through the desert,
a heart to cherish in the darkness. I will
tune my radio past the static to hear my love.

Somehow my nightmare turned into a dream of the desert.
Will I be forever bewitched by the mysterious glow
or will I find my love by the sound of his voice?
metaphorliteral: (play crack the sky)
I think we've got it backwards.
Summer days sweating to slow death
garlanded with roses,
making things grow just to have something to do.

Maybe she spends the summer
lost in her memories of his mouth,
the way he touches her,
the timbre of his voice as he calls her "my queen."

Maybe her mother's overbearing,
her friends don't get it,
other gods come knocking at her door
promising to show her a good time.

Maybe she spends weeks drying flowers
to bring him her scent
to tide him though the next interminable summer,
sleeping with his shirt tucked under her pillow.

Maybe she spends the dog days waiting for that first ripe pomegranate--
swallowing seeds in her haste to taste more
and greeting him at the top of the staircase with lips stained red
and half the fruit still in her left hand.

Maybe she gets the best of it--
strawberries and thunderstorms
and leaves the harvest to other hands
as he leads her into the underworld.

Let Demeter reap corn and shovel snow
while Persephone is benevolent to the dead,
blooming below the earth,
warm in his arms through the all-too-brief winter.
metaphorliteral: (play crack the sky)
You were always too beautiful for your own good,
but never let it go to your head like lesser women.
In love, of love, for love, amidst love,
beloved lover of Love himself,
and you were too curious for your own good as well.
Was it worth that glimpse of his face?
Tell you the truth, I'd have done the same,
though I may have been more careful than you.
Tell you the truth, I do something similar,
shedding light on faces I should leave in the dark.
Stand here by the water with me and tell the truth:
Wasn't it all worth it in the end?
For you, ambrosia, immortality.
For me-- I don't know yet. But soon I'll see.
metaphorliteral: (we bleed the ink of subtle allegory)
Standing there in awkwardness, you and I,
With inevitability standing there beside us--
The intention of a kiss lingering behind our lips
And the frazzled shadow of my nerves on the wall
Combining to lead us to the place we can't avoid--
All the awkward shyness and uncertain intent
And darting eyes in silent argument
With the terror and desire clumsily alloyed
As we stand shyly embraced within the hall--
Moments leading up to this:
One finally realized kiss.

And between ourselves there has been time
For messages left silent in the night
For words it took a drunken haze to write
For darkened rooms and movie screens
And subtle shifts to slightly lean
Into each other's arms in the dim light.
Building bit by bit until the truth was plain:
Without that kiss I would have gone insane.

It seems unfair, then, to throw shut that door,
To have that kiss or two, and nothing more--
To say, "I'm not sure this is for the best at all.
This could not work, at all."
It is impossible to say just what I need!

In a hallway there is time
For decisions to be made
That in a hallway are reversed.


I have walked along the pond and seen the swallows flying free.
His voice comes through my headphones, skips with the CD--
I do not think that he will ever sing just to me.


metaphorliteral: (Default)

September 2016

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