Moonwake trailing along the waves
like the intrinsic desire
rippling in my heart
(Can You feel me?)
Casting wishes into the water
underneath the disappearing stars
(Does Your heart feel the pull of desire
the way the ocean feels the tide?)
I wonder, and wander
lost in love
lost in thoughts of You
(Do your thoughts turn
to me too?)
Your lips brush mine
(Is this all a dream?)
Flowers burst into bloom
and butterflies flutter, forbidden
words slip from my lips
(Forever captured in a
heartbeat.)
Starfall rising in the ebony
night erupting into a meteor
shower of uninhibited desire
(Every time You call me Your
flower my heart leaps.)
Poetry written on skin in
soft fingertips
About the Creator
Valentyna Holloway
Valentyna, wordsmith, poetess, bearer of scribed love. A flâneuse and aesthete, Valentyna is the author of several poetry collections including Forbidden Love Songs, Coffee Laced Thoughts, Valentyne Dreams, and The Ripped Notebook Series.
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More stories from Valentyna Holloway and writers in Poets and other communities.
Cracks In the Light
Unspoken secrets, coveted, shared.Time that bends like sunflowersturning their faces towards rays of radiance.Words of love tricklingfrom my lips...Rain shatters on the groundas I turn to youand pull you into my embrace...Love remembered.Shadows of the forbidden torn awaylike waves crashing on the shore,darkness receding leaving, banished,sparkling seashells in their wake.The longing moon flirting with achandelier of stars as the peaceful feelingof safety ensconces me as it emanatesfrom your arms.Grains of stardust catch the moonfirea whisper, a kiss,until you and I become lostfallen into the cracks in the light.
By Valentyna Holloway8 years ago in Poets
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova3 days ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart5 days ago in Fiction
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