This morning the sun,
beyond the birch grove,
ripened like a summer peach.
The river rushed to the ocean.
My body was a core of closet dust.
This morning dark stones on a ledge
descended in handfuls:
slipping into each other,
tumbling like an uptight crowd.
Your gaze drops like a feather
to the wilted corner of the vacant bedroom
where a pile of ruffled notebooks
sit slouched, untouched
in over a year.
You promise yourself
not to be static,
not to get stuck,
not to be a moon for someone
else's planet.
The boy behind the blue cash register
at the corner store accidentally
circles you in his sleep.
When you were younger
you revolved around a model
of Pluto, downsized
and jammed into a jar.
Usually, bookshelves
hold people adept to looping
the lip
of sink drains and kissing
Icarus goodbye before leaving
the house in a rainstorm.
This morning I found the boy
from the corner store
with his hand on the nape
of his neck,
holding words like dirt
under his nails,
searching for some kind of delicate love
I didn't know the name for.
beyond the birch grove,
ripened like a summer peach.
The river rushed to the ocean.
My body was a core of closet dust.
This morning dark stones on a ledge
descended in handfuls:
slipping into each other,
tumbling like an uptight crowd.
Your gaze drops like a feather
to the wilted corner of the vacant bedroom
where a pile of ruffled notebooks
sit slouched, untouched
in over a year.
You promise yourself
not to be static,
not to get stuck,
not to be a moon for someone
else's planet.
The boy behind the blue cash register
at the corner store accidentally
circles you in his sleep.
When you were younger
you revolved around a model
of Pluto, downsized
and jammed into a jar.
Usually, bookshelves
hold people adept to looping
the lip
of sink drains and kissing
Icarus goodbye before leaving
the house in a rainstorm.
This morning I found the boy
from the corner store
with his hand on the nape
of his neck,
holding words like dirt
under his nails,
searching for some kind of delicate love
I didn't know the name for.
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aesythe
Jun 24, 2019
In one of my first college writing classes I remember my professor spending an hour with us naming an object or emotion, one after the other, and around the room we'd go giving our best creative comparisons. Maybe it was just the pressure, but I was terrible at it. For others in the class though, it was effortless to make an entirely unique connection between two things in a way none of us would ever have considered.
All of that rambling, I guess, just for me to say - you have that ability. While similes and metaphors often expose the weaknesses of many writers (their absence of imagination, unawareness of what is and isn't cliche, and lack of editing to rework something that feels entirely forced), they are one of your greatest strengths. "How is it that I've never thought of XXX that way before?" is a question that frequently occurs to me when I read your work. And once I picture a connection, it's sometimes difficult NOT to think of things in that way - it'll make so much sense as to feel surprising, yet obvious.
If you pursue writing in the future, you'll no doubt encounter fellow writers or professors who argue that a style like yours does not "get to the point" quickly enough. Listen to them if you wish as you continue to grow, but from at least one reader's perspective you've developed mastery over a technique that only ever adds vibrant color to your work.
Thanks as always for sharing with us all!