Little Things

It’s getting hard to tell apart

My head from hell,

My melting heart:

A puddle on my driveway,

A stain upon my shirt.

Please just run away —

I don’t want you getting hurt.


Celtic music, felt-tip pens —

The little things of there and then.

Whispers and whistles of another time —

Lost to rhythm, lost to rhyme,

Lost to losing daylight now.

The scent of skunk, a cooing cow:

Little things to separate

The new, the old, the far too late.

Sunflower

Acer Sacharrum

VT

15 years old

More by Acer Sacharrum

See all

  • Poetry

    By Acer Sacharrum

    Musings on a Lost Ring

    I found a ring I thought I’d lost

    in the bottom of my bag.

    I haven’t seen it since last spring —

    It’s funny, isn’t it?

    All these months,

    I thought it gone,

    all this time, I’ve just been

    carrying it.

    Read More

  • Poetry

    By Acer Sacharrum

    Please, don’t.

    Don’t. 

    Don’t you know? 

    Don’t you know what I mean? 

    Don’t you know what I mean when I say 

    something isn’t right something isn’t right something isn’t right 

    Read More

  • Poetry

    By Acer Sacharrum

    If

    I — 

    I could. 

    I could, love. 

    I could love you. 

    I could love you if… 


    I — 

    I wanted. 

    I wanted to. 

    I wanted to, love. 

    Read More