ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Literature Text
dear mie,
sometimes, i get a little carried away.
once i really believed that you and andy would get married. knowing mie, your genes would be dominant; i imagined a little girl with cornsilk braids and lips trailing apple peel, joints made of air and gibbous moon. "you should call her ondine," i told you, picturing your taut creamy stomach lush and swollen with potential.
"i've never wanted children," you replied, exhaling— the motion so beautiful, the umbrellas we gripped became parasols and london fog turned into clouds thin as rice paper.
"oh." i felt sorry for the unborn child, who would never get to be cradled by a mother with arms like ribboning ivory, like swan lake ballets in freeze-frame.
*
when i'm lonely, i trace out routes for you, looping intercostal paths through tiny towns and lonely stretches of prairie. you probably still wear soft-soled shoes and try to leave no impression on the lives you cut across. mie, you've always liked to pretend, but i know better— being beautiful in your way is indelible.
last week i was shopping with andy— his hair is bleached pale lavender now, same as the flowers you used to love— when i saw this girl. she had hair the color of chanterelle mushrooms, a poppy mouth cut to pronounce words like "penultimate" and "good-bye".
"she looks like mie," i whispered to him. time slowed, a jumpsuit one size too tight; my tears were viscous.
he didn't reply.
you know, mie, andy has a girlfriend. she doesn't look like you, but i watch the way she moves— a sparrow in stilted flight, soap bubbles blooming past gravity's hold— and see you dancing under the sky, rain knitting a confession in the tilt of your hips. in bits and pieces: this is how you stay with us.
*
for some reason, a while ago i got the notion that maybe you were dead. so i went to the last place you'd sent me a postcard from, an isolated little village in the middle of nowhere, and went around showing people a stack of pictures we'd taken together.
finally, i found a man who'd seen you.
"sure," he said. "she came around here two weeks ago. pretty girl, like an angel." (even with your piercings and dyed hair and smeared lipstick, mie, you've never fooled anybody.)
"did she seem OK?"
"i talked to her a little bit and asked if she needed help. it's a rare occurrence, someone traveling alone in these parts. she had really beautiful voice, hard to forget. said she was alright. seemed lonely."
oh, mie, you haven't changed at all.
*
dear mie,
sometimes, i get a lot carried away. (i want to take you with me.)
sometimes, i get a little carried away.
once i really believed that you and andy would get married. knowing mie, your genes would be dominant; i imagined a little girl with cornsilk braids and lips trailing apple peel, joints made of air and gibbous moon. "you should call her ondine," i told you, picturing your taut creamy stomach lush and swollen with potential.
"i've never wanted children," you replied, exhaling— the motion so beautiful, the umbrellas we gripped became parasols and london fog turned into clouds thin as rice paper.
"oh." i felt sorry for the unborn child, who would never get to be cradled by a mother with arms like ribboning ivory, like swan lake ballets in freeze-frame.
*
when i'm lonely, i trace out routes for you, looping intercostal paths through tiny towns and lonely stretches of prairie. you probably still wear soft-soled shoes and try to leave no impression on the lives you cut across. mie, you've always liked to pretend, but i know better— being beautiful in your way is indelible.
last week i was shopping with andy— his hair is bleached pale lavender now, same as the flowers you used to love— when i saw this girl. she had hair the color of chanterelle mushrooms, a poppy mouth cut to pronounce words like "penultimate" and "good-bye".
"she looks like mie," i whispered to him. time slowed, a jumpsuit one size too tight; my tears were viscous.
he didn't reply.
you know, mie, andy has a girlfriend. she doesn't look like you, but i watch the way she moves— a sparrow in stilted flight, soap bubbles blooming past gravity's hold— and see you dancing under the sky, rain knitting a confession in the tilt of your hips. in bits and pieces: this is how you stay with us.
*
for some reason, a while ago i got the notion that maybe you were dead. so i went to the last place you'd sent me a postcard from, an isolated little village in the middle of nowhere, and went around showing people a stack of pictures we'd taken together.
finally, i found a man who'd seen you.
"sure," he said. "she came around here two weeks ago. pretty girl, like an angel." (even with your piercings and dyed hair and smeared lipstick, mie, you've never fooled anybody.)
"did she seem OK?"
"i talked to her a little bit and asked if she needed help. it's a rare occurrence, someone traveling alone in these parts. she had really beautiful voice, hard to forget. said she was alright. seemed lonely."
oh, mie, you haven't changed at all.
*
dear mie,
sometimes, i get a lot carried away. (i want to take you with me.)
Literature
Where Do We Go From Here?
i.
If my heart was a compass it would point south because my head hangs down and my lungs have sunk to my stomach and become entangled with my large intestine. All my organs have gone haywire and been sent mixed signals by my brain. I'm starting to think I have a tumor because my head always cracks like thunder and I can always hear a train late at night, except we don't live near the train tracks and it never storms in this god-forsaken place.
ii.
But I did see lightning once and it rippled down my spine all the way to my toes and I swear I could taste it on my tongue. It was so rich and reminded me of turtle cheesecake (my stomach's neve
Literature
before
a little while ago
maybe a couple of months or something
i wasn't drinking ; instead i was
waking up to you
every morning you would stretch
and your spine would move and i felt it all over
your skin stretched into the sun and
i saw it everywhere
but guess what, that shit was gold and
gold doesn't last and you didn't last.
i got boring and you got mean.
and you're less of a gypsy and more of
a woman and i know if i called you up tonight
said hey baby come home
how did we get here baby i'm crying on the
floor drinking lime pepsi
and this goddamn pepsi is flat. so why don't
you come home. just for the night.
you would say you h
Literature
All That Must End.
The price Alice paid for dreaming
was to wake up.
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
i would like to know if the ending makes sense. does the letter format work out?
© 2010 - 2024 sliverofciel
Comments10
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
I like the idea, but it needs some work. I kept getting lost in the first two parts. maybe add just a bit more detail, or change the words a bit. Other then that, you have a great imagination, and you did a wonderful job!