Literature not including fanfics. (Fanfics is in Fan Work)
Door Up High by SilliestGilliest, literature
Literature
Door Up High
This is [not] an open book.
Door Up High
Close this book
Close the door
Door for the heart
Door for the mind
Heart made of memories
Heart made of stone
Memories of warmth
Memories written down
Warmth of the sun
Warmth from others
Sun of the summer
Sun on my skin
Summer golden light
Summer in smiles
Light in my eyes
Light on the inside
Eyes lost in the ocean
Eyes staring off
Ocean of my body
Ocean in my soul
Body is holding steady
Body is groaning
Steady and secure
Steady I hold
Secure and safe
Secure but shaken
Safe and sound
Safe and put away
Sound of rain
Sound in ambiance
Rain for eternity
Rain to cleanse
Eternity for waiting
Eternity kn
I confess I don't remember
Whether you wore your hair down
Or tied it back into a sort-of pony tail;
Whether your dress was red with black spots
Or black with red spots,
Or something else entirely.
But I perfectly recall your smile,
Like Spring’s first sunshine
Whose warmth lingers even now.
I may have already forgotten,
The cadence with which you spoke
Your intonation and inflection;
The questions you asked me
And the answers I found
Down amongst the butterflies.
But I know that your voice
Was an unchained symphony
Was angelsong
A spell of sweet restlessness.
I cannot fo
Most people, upon discovering a haunting or trespasser in their house, would abandon the home or find some way to force the intruder out. Rosalyn welcomes the company.
She and her visitor have settled into a comfortable routine by the start of August. That's how she thinks of it- her visitor: the unidentified something that shuffles around the attic at night, never stealing or breaking, but moving the odd item while she sleeps. She's taken to setting a biscuit with butter and apricot preserves on the coffee table for it as part of her nightly routine.
On the eighth morning, it brings something to her.
Rosalyn peels away her sweaty sheet an
He told me he sleeps in a t-shirt –
and only a t-shirt. The image
won’t leave my head; this body,
so familiar to me, yet barricaded
by layers of fabric – I have never seen
the joints of his elbows, the slope
of his spine, the terrain of his
stomach – but I have felt their presence
through wool and cotton, known
their warmth in brief moments
of contact. And there’s a strange
intrigue to modesty, knowing his
psychology but not his physique.
I have found strength in his words
and wisdom in his hands; I have plunged
these depths past fondness and into
familiarity and found, here, in the dark
of his ocean, that I c