Drop by drop I mourn the sea.
one day I’ll stop writing about you. maybe that will be love too.
By Ella Bogdanova3 months ago in Poets
Footprints in the snow lead up to my windowpane— none leading away.
I spent 30 years Afraid of remembering my childhood Of cloaking myself in its warmth Simply because I wasn't allowed to be that person
I see you: those of you hunched by the weight of 1000 generations, ancestors squabbling atop of your small shoulder blades.
How lovely, she thought, To keep what was given to you.
Every time I stay in Venice I get tragically lost. I even stay in the same 500-year-old apartment Unafraid to rise at night,
“Of course you distrust authority. Of course you sleep in your shoes, One foot on the windowsill, Ready for some unknowable god
Some people are in love with electricity They want to be so close to the storm That they feel the lightning crackling between their toes and rain dripping down their thighs,
It’s an Akhmatova sort of sky – Heavy, grey, kind. My head knows you’re still alive, just scattered, But my heart refuses to tell the difference.
Back then, things happened to me. Flew paradise and landed, badly. Endured a boa constrictor love. Grew wafer-thin. Still wasn’t eaten.
I used to get drunk with vagabonds and gorgeous bohemians, Fall asleep in the grass like a pile of kittens, Stay up all night watching the stars turn,
Learning you were never obligated to love me by the great joke called Biology Learning all the gifts you gave me— How all those songs go,
