ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
April 25, 2012
Where are regrets kept? by ~sillycanadianwriter Suggester Writes: A tiny poem about love and loss which punches way above its weight.
Featured by BeccaJS
Suggested by monstroooo
Literature Text
Perhaps in the hollow
space between
my clavicle
and scapula-
That's where your chin
rested all summer long
and that's where the tears
fell in September.
space between
my clavicle
and scapula-
That's where your chin
rested all summer long
and that's where the tears
fell in September.
Literature
saudade
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 wa
Literature
Let Me Down Gently
I never said I was an angel,
rather,
I'm a feather on its wing,
so when you let me drift
on the next western current,
let me fall slowly down,
d
r
i
f
t
i
n
g.
I promise I'll land softly,
though you will not find me
where you left me.
Literature
Metastasis
98.00
Autumn is the season when everything dies.
The leaves shrivel up and your lungs go with them, tiny dejected organs drying out inside your sternum, crinkling under our footsteps. The doctors pronounce their diagnosis as the leaves fall, listing medical terms and percentages and something about medication options.
The disease is metastatic: it has bored its way out of your lungs and into your bones. Dissatisfied, it's going for your organs, your liver, your heart. The prognosis says Christmas is a pipe dream, likely as the sun ceasing to set.
You promise it anyway.
94.00
November comes and I am a fish, breathing through makeshift gi
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
