Literaryspill

~~SOMETIMES IT ONLY TASTES LIKE SUGAR~~

I hit the bottom of the glass

and its all warmth

and its all emptiness

and its all you

and its only

shame turned to

whiskey turned to

rum soaking

on bleeding lips.

You fed me

tawdry drinks

mixed

with cheap promises

and easy conversation.

Yesterday

I thought I tasted sugar.

Today

it tastes like bullshit.

tastes like you

Of The Things You Dream

Sometimes

I pray

for a

sign.

Then I

dream

of strange

faces

with

biblical names

and

it is all

just

nonsense

and

then I

realize

none

of the

names

or

faces

were of you.

Love Letters

~~Dear Tristan,~~

~~Tragic endings make for great love stories.~~

~~But our story wasn’t a love story….it was just tragic~~

~~Love,~~

~~Isolde~~

©Nathalie M. Viorato

~~OF THE THINGS THAT COME BACK TO YOU~~

if you are coming home

please leave any trails that bring you

directly to my doorstep

you are no longer wanted here.

or needed.

~~When Cathedrals Crack~~

I’ve been stacking things up against each other

laying unstable steps on frail footings to reach the truth

I stifle the words and heavy voices and watch unanswered prayers

unravel into the night. Can science explain the beating of a frozen

heart and tears trapped in summer’s withering winds

stabbing the ground and parting the red sea and swirling the waters

where the earth is weakest?

How long can we talk or not talk about celestial promises

whispering like a firefly in the autumn night?

Is it enough to say that you never leave any doubts in my mind

and that I only know what I know because of the things you don’t say?

And if you know anything it’s that I overanalyzed everything in our space

and it grew into a moment that turned you into experience.

©Nathalie M. Viorato

~~Belle’s Romance~~

these things are like

delicate, frail tea cups

and they

fall apart like petals, drenched

with sultry winter air

you haven’t looked for me yet

in all the places I thought you would

i have yet to move anywhere else

i have yet to move.

UNTITLED

25920 seconds seem like yesterday,

not the trivial things,

like what you said

or what I was wearing that day,

just the feelings after,

hot steam running against cold skin

cheek on hard tile

washing away the bitterness of a wintry chill

with soap and shampoo;

its the insignificant things that get stored away,

and when unearthed later on

at the most inconvenient times

make you ache.

like the burning sensation of tap water

on pale skin

the tart, acidic smell of vomit

inhaled after purging yourself

from the spurning of a vapid man

or the exact moment

when you reminisce on the feeling

of warm lips grazing each other,

fingers interlaced;

hearts beating in unison

wasn’t it just yesterday?

that I was suffocating by your hand

my lungs pleading for air

you tightening the noose

wasn’t it just yesterday?

but tell me

wasn’t it just yesterday

that you loved me?

The Things the Sky Forgets

I have never known anything more beautiful

than the warmth, blush of the Sun,

incandescent against the pale blue sky,

like the soft flames of a candle,

I’ll graze my fingertips against its glowing edge,

and see the shadows of silhouettes rising

from their sleep

or perhaps, fondle the humidity in the air

as I forget,

that Stars can also burn.

Literaryspill: The Voices Behind the Curtain once in a while, we roll tongue against... »

writing2u:

The Voices Behind the Curtain

once in a while,

we roll tongue against skin

and skin against teeth

and it is not all, show

primitive sounds escape

revealing, a life’s worth of

hidden auroras and clear

writing2u:

To the Other Woman’s Other Woman

she savors the taste of love
new promises whispering whimsically

aching for more.

more

more

and then some

gorging herself on lies.

she hasn’t noticed yet

the drifter in his eyes

or the smokescreen

that cages his gypsy heart.

she hasn’t noticed yet

that she is me.

© Nathalie M. Viorato