Realities We Make

“I’ve stolen dreamed words
out of Borges’ mouth
and written us on my skin.

In the book of us,
your words are drummed to song
I dance into ink and feels.” ~ MG

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I want our wildest
words to be of you and me.
Let’s be ink and feels
only for us, write a room
of realities we make.

I’ll spell an ink-world with you, I replied to him, the letters dark and honest over my heart. Write me yours and I’ll write you mine.

And we wrote…

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the wee notes…
– Beginnings often start at the end. So, yes, this is the last of Ink and Feels (for now). What happens after this, the details of how they live and love in ink, will be part of a poetry chapter book. If you’ve missed some of the poems, visit my Web Serials page.
– The 2 stanzas quoted at the beginning are part of the poem that inspired the series.
– Written for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55, and linked to the Garden.

Trepidation

In the mirror, I watched his words blossoming between my breasts, his ink claiming my heart. I felt our truth—in flesh and bone, I was still mine… but I was his in ink.

Before you, I wrote,
merry-go-sorry ruled me,
my words were wary.
Trepidation (an old friend)
wonders what you ask of me.

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the wee notes…
– To read other installments, visit my Web Serials page. The tales are listed under Ink and Feels. This is almost the end… I’ll post the last bit this coming Tuesday.
– Written for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (where Paul howled, “Awhape me!”), and for Hedgewitch’s Friday 55 (she wants kickass words and world peace).
Awhape means to amaze, and merry-go-sorry is a mixture of joy and sorrow.

Flesh and Sweat and Love

Secrecy made us the darkest of fairy tales, trickery turned shield. We ran and hid behind realities disbelief labelled fictions. Our love fed on shadowed moons, grew as strong and wise as the wildest of storms was harsh. My witch bled spells.

“To protect our hearts,
I give flesh and sweat and love,
submit to Nature,
charm a shroud of memories
to conceal her heart in mine.”

Her lips added no other words to the chant, but her eyes spoke clearly into mine—We shouldn’t have to be prisoners of the dark. I cradled her face, kissed the silver curls her magic had been weaving into her hair. “The night will never be a cage, my heart… Not while we are free to have each other in it.”

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the wee notes…
– To read other installments, visit my Web Serials page. The tales are listed under Belle du Freak. This is a rewrite. Wish to read the original, “Spelling Brightness”? Just follow this link back to 2012.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and Poets United.