Fantasia 7pm (Part 1)“Vostro il caffè,” the barista held out the steaming mug, Tate taking it with both his hands. The smell of freshly ground coffee overwhelmed his senses as he raised the mug and breathed deeply. Making his way through the bustling occurring inside the shop, he noticed a free seat along the window front. Walking over, his backpack swinging from his right shoulder, he stopped and motioned to the chair.Fantasia 7pm (Part 1) by Greedybee
“Yes, of course,” the young woman replied, and Tate was surprised to hear words he clearly understood.
“You speak English?” He questioned, placing down his coffee and leaving his bag at his feet.
“Why yes,” the woman smiled, her red lips stick stark against her caramel Italian skin.
“My father teachers it professionally. So naturally, he taught me.”
“Do you use that skill often?”
“I am not sure, viaggiatore, if speaking English in my country counts as a skill.”
“Well I am glad you speak it,
The Boy With Strong Arms.He was strong enough to lift the weight of a thousand broken memories from her chest, and silence the fractured voicesThe Boy With Strong Arms. by simran31
that haunted her
when she was alone.
She would always grasp
his fingers and
draw pictures in the air-
light airbrush strokes that
told more than
she was his angel
his hands were bruised,
from fighting so many demons
that grew out
her pale white skin.
He knew if he left her
she would wither away,
and those angel wings
would begin to fall apart into
a million shards of
blackened glass and ash.
He did not want to leave his
(broken) angel behind.
So he stayed by her side,
and watched as
a million different miseries
carved their way
up through her body
later that night,
her halo shattered
and she broke apart
in his arms.
He wasn't strong enough.
Champagne GlassHer veins run so deep within her skin,Champagne Glass by simran31
that sometimes she would have to dig them up with a knife
just to prove that they still exist.
There was an entity that resided in the darkest hollows
of the wasteland that is her body.
It came out one night, and
traced its claws across her skin
leaving behind its diseases
in the crevices of her body;
cold and damp.
Now she is rotting
from the inside out-
than a champagne glass
on a forgotten anniversary.
Yet she still breaths through
her crumbling chest,
despite her withering wings,
and bouquet of bruises
that are only as beautiful
as the roses
that didn’t exist.
She still held on to hope
like a tearing rope.
Her breath was stained with tie-dye wishes,
and her heart soared on dandelion petals
across an ocean
of her own inconsistencies.
But there were masterpieces painted beneath her eyelids,
articulate prose of poetry etched into her skin,
and tragic love stories tied to her rib cage.
I wish I could protect you from unk
ReminiscenceThe memories materialized in my head like golden threads.Reminiscence by simran31
I wove them together and made a blanket to keep me warm when I forget.
But your blanket has become tattered, frayed, and worn.
A hole through the seams of our love; its completely torn.
My name is just another loose thread that can’t be sown back in,
You try to remember, but the needle is always too thin.
“Who are you again, love?
The knots in your head are bound so tight,
You’ve even forgotten our youth filled nights.
Now deep creases disrupt the gentleness of your once youthful face,
The gentle moments of childhood are just as fragile as lace.
“Lets stay up till the sun rises.”
Regardless, I wrap my arms around a love I once knew.
Trying to share the warmth of memory with you.
But your skin is ice cold and you cannot remember,
But against the frost of your mind I will never surrender.
“Remember me, please.”
You start to slip away, while our love just lingers,
Like soft fabric running t
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