Aug 19
poem, fiction 1 comment challenge: Tune
Yellow Sweater's picture

Sorry or Please

She sits next to me on my favorite bench. We stare at the street, watching other people. In the early evening light they all look the same. But she is too close for the darkness to obscure her delicate details. Despite my negligence, she is smiling. Perhaps she smiles because of my negligence? My toes twitch. Was the bench the right idea? She leans her head against my shoulder. Help me

Her voice is as soft as her fragrant hair. She tells me to look at the moon. Is the moon romantic or unattainable? The moon is so far away. We stare at it together. Her hand opens. I hesitate. Instead of taking it, I tell her to follow me. We leave the comfortable bench behind. I lead her through my city. Our hands are distinctly disparate, yet some how, together we run. Is it sympathy or empathy? Is she saying sorry or please
Aug 18
Yellow Sweater's picture


We ate blackberry-pie under the stars.
On our backs, bathed in the distant light,
we read a story. 
It was about Good and Evil. 

They raised their swords, 
galloping into the rising sun. 
Because only something sharp and terrible, 
was pure enough.   

To unfold, 
is to be beyond breaking, 
or at least, to be beyond incohesion. 

To unfold 
is to watch the stars 
and wait, 
wait for them to take a shape.  

A horse ready and rearing,
made of burning points, 
and full of everything in between.

Aug 17
Yellow Sweater's picture

Midnight Romanticism

The only things I could possibly rhapsodize are your words
Because they are explicit,
Powerful and tremulous, 
But explicit.
Everything else description would only dirty. 
And I will not ruin my love by translating it. 

I would record your every movement,
The delicate way you place your feet. 
But no conclusions,
No reason for my madness.
If I had reason,
I would no longer be mad, 
And my madness keeps me sane. 
The deep throated passion under my skin, 
The primal senseless roar.

Duende, the poet’s ghost.    

I love your words. 
Write so I may write. 
Pen your thoughts
So I may worship them
Without soiling your perfection.

Aug 16
Yellow Sweater's picture


I sat with my hands on my lap, waiting for the train. The station was dark and damp. My still wet eyelashes fluttered. The drops that fell into my eyes were tiny, so gentle they could almost be the beginning of tears. I looked down at the book I was holding. The paper was also wet. I sighed, squinting, as I tried to make out the shape of a blotted word. I set my book down, wrapped my arms around my shoulders, and started to shake. It was June. The cold was ephemeral; the superficial kind that makes you shiver ostentatiously, then passes like a fever dream. Reminding myself that the sun would soon return, I tried to concentrate on my book. But every few moments I would look up, marking my place with an eager, ever-shifting figer. I was afraid I would let the dreary silence obscure the sound of an arriving train. After a couple of minuets, I finally relented and checked my watch. The train was late.  
Aug 15
humor 0 comments challenge: Manual
Yellow Sweater's picture


"I am your new tutor, Alexandria---

"Like the ancient library!"

"Yes. The one that we burned. I am supposed to teach you anthropology. Humanity is a terrible self destructive mess. I couId leave it there, but we have a whole hour to burn. So, for the benefit of your young innocent ears, I will expound. I will start by using the most ubiquitous of human devises: the allegory. And where else could one find a better allegory for the nature of humanity then our own history?"

"How can you already be pontificating?  You just introduced yourself!" 

"Pontification is a trademark of humanity."

"It doesn't have to be." 

"We will see if you still think that once I have finished with my lesson."  

"Please just start"

"Fine. Here it goes: the story of the first interplanetary war...
Aug 15
Yellow Sweater's picture

Smooth, for the Moment

There is a sadness that is soft.
Sometime, I go looking for it. 

I go and watch the wind. 
I go where I can see my tiniest hairs
as they brush my face.

Oblivious and dancing. 
They are gold for the briefest moment,
reavealed in the sunlight.
Untranslated, they drift
back into shadow.


I am reminded that I am not my pieces.
My braids are tight. 
Yet, everything, even my own hair, escapes. 

The wind 
loves me, 
consoles me.
It doesn't know how,
So it laughs,
tickling my nose.
Its gentle touch, 
the saddest sweetest thing

Aug 14
Yellow Sweater's picture

On Edge

(This is a journal entry I found from early June. It's a little out of date, but I feel like a lot of it still rings true for me.) 

The light is playful today. It is dancing in and out of shadow. The people are gathered in groups. They move with the light, laughing. It is a strange, yet oddly fitting, atmosphere to read about the intoxicating mixture of passion and hate that drove the conflict in the Balkans. It is a day unfiltered and ever-changing in a blur of oddly met expectations. The air and the sound of people’s conversations have a hard clarity. I am sitting between sunlight and shade, perched on springs edge, observing the festivities and reading about atrocities of an earlier time that feel unexplainably and unsettlingly close. 
Aug 14
Yellow Sweater's picture

Rain on Glass

I wore glasses. Big round ones. And when they rested on my nose, my eyes were wide. The wind brushed my hair, touching my lips. It brought with it the smell of fresh rain and forgotten dust. 

The people pressed, their eyes searching, through the quiet smell of rain, through the quiet sound of people walking. Onward. Onward in passing. I am shaking terribly. I am shaking with indifference. In the warm evening my skin is wet. It smells like the rain. Like the wet cold rain. And it feels no different then the wet grass. Fresh and bright and shaking. I am fresh and bright and shaking. Still and loud in quiet movement. 

I took a breath, folding the air, holding myself, as my porch light began to glow in the growing night. 

Aug 12
Yellow Sweater's picture

The Storyteller

After a long day of harvesting, my mother would take me out to watch the stars. We would lay in the tall brown grass, our sweaty bodies covered in dust, and look up. She told me each star had a story. In hushed tones, she would whisper their secrets. I would laugh and cry and let the vast universe fill me with wonder and pride. I was proud to be on such intimate terms with its personalities. 
Aug 10
Yellow Sweater's picture

My Dirty Shoes

My shoes arn’t a perfect white. They bear the traces of dirt washed away long ago by the rain. The leather is creased where my feet repeatedly flex, where my powerful toes push me onwards. In these creases the nondescript dingy brown has gathered, becoming something solid. 

I cannot clean them. There is nothing to clean. The stains are insidious. They have seeped into the very fabric my shoes. They represent something abstract, something that cannot be scraped away. Shoes get dirty. It’s a fundamental truth.