As comforting as the soft warmth of a baby’s head
That I could feel your naked hair,
As comforting as the soft warmth of a baby’s head
Soft fingers like sweet, sweet accord
Brought on her spirit to a golden flower:
As comforting as the soft warmth of a baby’s head
We speak like other words at night,
The violate with violet, with wildflowers.
As comforting as the soft warmth of a baby’s head
Young April hushed the happy night
Before you passed, your lovely purple hair.
As comforting as the soft warmth of a baby’s head
Beside me, while I sang.
About the Creator
Aingeal Stone
My head is crammed full of stories so writing is a form of exorcism. I am a militant librarian and professional feminist. Everything is important and I take nothing seriously. I love mimosas and gin, my six dogs and my partner.
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For want of sleep
Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. So, what’s the point? Why waste all that precious oxygen screaming when no one can hear it? I inhale deeply and let it out with an audible sigh, then I turn away from the window and walk back to my bunk.
By Aingeal Stone3 years ago in Fiction
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If this is how sobriety feels, maybe it’s better to go through life a little buzzed… this, along with other hits like, I want to kill myself, I wish I was dead, and I’m going to throw myself off a bridge have been the only thoughts on rotation these past few days. I promise myself that if, in a month, I still feel like this (‘this’ meaning despondent, full of rage, and simultaneously numb) I can go back to smoking. Until mid-February though? Nicotine is off the table.
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