i've been wearing a scrubsuit
lately,
d
o
w
n
in the gutters of my summer cerebellum, scrubbing away the iconic chérie cherry heartache since its caption in the Revolutionary Romance Papers headline on Tuesday of last last month.
i've been acquainting myself with the jazzy Primiofori lemons and grew a small orchard in my parietal lobe, to make jams out of them and store them in heart-shaped sun-adored white-lace covered glass jars to spread over the French Toast to be cooked in an appreciated Philautia-worded tomorrow.
i'm not a love poet, darling.
i can't write about how i look at the stars with so much longing that the universe's clockwork shifts into reverse and explodes into a song of shooting stars.
i'm not a love poet, darling.
i can't write about ambitioning for a serenity-filled summer among honeymelon trees and wooden garden chairs. where i have cream milk dreams and fresh-bake apple tarts with my currently healing heart sitting across me, as we have funny conversations and make the sincerest of apologies under the warm papaya sun.
i've been wearing a scrubsuit lately,
d
o
w
n
in the gutters of my summer cerebellum, and i'm not a love poet, darling, but---
if loving onesself can
be an art of sophistry
that i would want,
i think that's a
topic i can
start
breathing.
This is the last poem of the anthology "love; and other disorders". Thank you so much for having read all
fifteen poems and having reached this point, my dear reader; it is no less
than an act that I take to
heart♡.
Sincerely,
Lilia
YOU ARE READING
love; and other disorders
Poetry"i just sat there, coughing frightful swans birthed from milk grapefruit flower love to swim in the pools of midnight, as you (with your fingers slightly touching mine) charmed the half-crazed moon with a rare rosen wine berry into what we were: a 2...
