im not my season — sunny
Mar 5, 2022 2:36:18 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Mar 5, 2022 2:36:18 GMT -5
S A M S O N
once
there was Sunny and Celeste –
&
we grew up in between a wild blue millennium
like weeds between concrete – stretching for a space between two planes of terrible time, cruel and difficult,
violent and blazing.
our youth was so crowded,
and no one knew what it was we sacrificed for every inch of our growth. into the naked light, bloodied and bruised, we were born.
our hands were blue at
the end of a long winter, in pale morning light. i was never there and you were always there. slow, slow, then fast –
our lives became a minute of joy, a flock of southern birds i counted from the freckles on your skin.
our country was of faithlessness and hunger.
but you could be worshipped,
i could have my fill of love.
winter, i knew you.
rain came,
the beginning of spring. back then, we were ideas of a season, our clothes green with grass stains, little budding flowers between fabric, our kiss full of blooms. you tasted like dew. i had your face in my hands above me,
your hair falling towards me, laid like a suicide
a strange, sweet
disaster
and you were my beautiful, beautiful Celeste. your eyes were the moon. it rained so much in april – i was soaked in you.
you were mine, the only thing that ever was.
&
i couldn't give in return.
remember us in our spring. when i laid under you, the canopy of trees,
the landscape of my only kindness.
july, the sunlight crucified us,
and the summer was so hot, all the leaves of the trees melted. our weeping willow had no more water for tears. i was red with poppies, skin burning in a feral heat. the dandelions bared their teeth. a woman died in the fields one afternoon. you tried to tame me. i could destroy you.
i think i did.
a memory of violence,
we fought. a man was executed in the district, shot in daylight but the birds barely flinched at the angel of death. she had feathers too. new peacekeepers from a foreign place swept through our homes. i slept with a gun. we fought. forty percent became seventy percent. pay cuts. we fought.
a memory of you.
i slept in your bed. i was so tired. the night you had me for the briefest moment. you touched me so tenderly i think i cried.
my Celeste,
i left
us draped over a branch of a tree for autumn. she came over and picked it like an apple, the mother of beauty.
i thought i had to let you go.
one more winter, one more spring and summer and fall.
just please come back.
one more season of us, of fighting and fury. of spring wilting and dying. of a fire that was the death of us. one more look. one more touch.
one more time.
we never even gave them a name.
&
once
there was
Sunny and Celeste.
there was Sunny and Celeste –
&
we grew up in between a wild blue millennium
like weeds between concrete – stretching for a space between two planes of terrible time, cruel and difficult,
violent and blazing.
our youth was so crowded,
and no one knew what it was we sacrificed for every inch of our growth. into the naked light, bloodied and bruised, we were born.
our hands were blue at
the end of a long winter, in pale morning light. i was never there and you were always there. slow, slow, then fast –
our lives became a minute of joy, a flock of southern birds i counted from the freckles on your skin.
our country was of faithlessness and hunger.
but you could be worshipped,
i could have my fill of love.
winter, i knew you.
rain came,
the beginning of spring. back then, we were ideas of a season, our clothes green with grass stains, little budding flowers between fabric, our kiss full of blooms. you tasted like dew. i had your face in my hands above me,
your hair falling towards me, laid like a suicide
a strange, sweet
disaster
and you were my beautiful, beautiful Celeste. your eyes were the moon. it rained so much in april – i was soaked in you.
you were mine, the only thing that ever was.
&
i couldn't give in return.
remember us in our spring. when i laid under you, the canopy of trees,
the landscape of my only kindness.
july, the sunlight crucified us,
and the summer was so hot, all the leaves of the trees melted. our weeping willow had no more water for tears. i was red with poppies, skin burning in a feral heat. the dandelions bared their teeth. a woman died in the fields one afternoon. you tried to tame me. i could destroy you.
i think i did.
a memory of violence,
we fought. a man was executed in the district, shot in daylight but the birds barely flinched at the angel of death. she had feathers too. new peacekeepers from a foreign place swept through our homes. i slept with a gun. we fought. forty percent became seventy percent. pay cuts. we fought.
a memory of you.
i slept in your bed. i was so tired. the night you had me for the briefest moment. you touched me so tenderly i think i cried.
my Celeste,
i left
us draped over a branch of a tree for autumn. she came over and picked it like an apple, the mother of beauty.
i thought i had to let you go.
one more winter, one more spring and summer and fall.
just please come back.
one more season of us, of fighting and fury. of spring wilting and dying. of a fire that was the death of us. one more look. one more touch.
one more time.
we never even gave them a name.
&
once
there was
Sunny and Celeste.
