How coarse is the world
How rough are the people in it
But how smooth is the liquor that coats my throat
How crumpled is the money left in my pocket
How sharp are my family’s tongues
But how smooth is this amber liquid
How my eyes prickle when my friends turn away
How jagged are my own inner thoughts
But how smooth is the feeling running through me
How barbed is the body I’ll never obtain
How splintered is the soul that will never again be one
But how smooth is the bliss that becomes me
About the Creator
.
Thanks for checking my profile out. I hope you're having a great day!
A Recipe for Nostalgia
Preheat the evening to dusk, when the light turns everything soft enough to forgive. Start with one smell you can't explain—strawberry fields rushing past as she pressed against your back, her arms around you a sign that you make her feel safe. Set your heart to high heat—to that night the security guard found you, his knuckles on glass like shouts in a cathedral, interrupting a sacred moment of worship. Bake with her simple joy until the air remembers how she pulled you onto that dance floor, her hips already fluent in a language your feet were still stuttering. At exactly half-past back when, press play on the song that made her throw her head back laughing when you made up your own words. Let the first chord open the trapdoor under your ribs. Find the old hoodie she borrowed and hold it like a saint's garment (Over-handling may cause her perfume to fade). If it still fits, that's how you know nostalgia is lying; if it doesn't, that's how you know it's working. Add the longing in slowly—enough to swell every memory of her groaning at your puns, but not so much it leaks into regret. Mix in the three words she finally said for the first time ever. Scatter Polaroids on the counter, shuffle hands until every card shows her mid-laugh at something terrible you said. Fold-in the way her body twinged in anticipation when you’d gently touch it. Beat the urge to call her. Decorate with her last name—the one she planned to leave behind for you. Prepare for the ache in your temples; remember, this is a side effect, not a symptom. Garnish with the voicemail she left on your birthday, that you saved to listen to when you wanted to think of her. Serve in porcelain chipped by other lives. Nostalgia is best when shared, but may also be consumed shamelessly, in the blue glow of the fridge at 2 am. Store leftovers in your chest cavity. Reheat as necessary.
By SUEDE the poet2 days ago in Poets
The Saddest Thing - The Billionaires Who Rule America Aren't Even Enjoying Themselves
This single post says more about our ruling class than a thousand policy papers. The saddest thing about today's system is that the men robbing the rest of us - sabotaging our economic prospects, our pensions, our access to affordable healthcare - are not even happy.
By Scott Christenson🌴5 days ago in The Swamp
Comments (1)
The world is a very rough place and there's only one smooth solace. Loved your poem!