Waiting To Be Emptied

paper-plane


Dear Marie,
Yr thighs are ruined, you want too much.


Dear Marie,
Pink.
Nineteen.
Nodding razors hello.
Glad folding pale slips.


Dear Marie,
I married the butcher to get to the bone.


Dear Marie,
Love letters to non-lovers is our inner dialogue melting the mint sting smell in the dark bar again.


Dear Marie,
Are you reading Truth and Beauty and wanting to make paper planes out of each and 
every ripped out page, then never fly them my way?


Dear Marie,
We were never lazy when we were still friends, because every couch cushion was on fire 
and clammy boy hands swatted away ashes faster than the burns could appear on our 
thighs.


Dear Marie,
If temperate climates are the ones to incubate the future of footsteps then why did this 
happen to my cold cold cold spring?


Dear Marie,
I left you because the wrapping cracked on the record meant we start talking about the 
nature of circles again.


Dear Marie,
Diary entries. 
Lecture hall. 
Only two seats. 


Dear Marie,
And now on to wrestle dust to dust to make water for my letters to soak.


Dear Marie,
Inland bravery before shipwrecks.


Dear Marie,
Neither one could offer a brother for blood, laying down a towel as we do.


Dear Marie,
Knots the sheets in the nightly escape. 
Curtsy to every prey before lay. 


Dear Marie,
I may have stared at your throat then and saw a necklace of hellos getting smaller. 


Dear Marie,
Stop painting pictures of us with the clouds scarlet white.


Dear Marie,
Don’t you sleep in the cold if you want to wake up.



Dear Marie,
I may have told you that there’s no such thing as sharp magnets in nature but there always 
awaits an edge to each stone.


Dear Marie,
Larvae to egg, larvae to egg, larvae to egg.
Crawl back my sweet baby.


Dear Marie,
My milk in a bag. And yours, powdered to suck.


Dear Marie,
Birch tree forest grown so dense and so tight the torn papers are slapping each other.


Dear Marie,
I believed the red ribbons you tied in your hair and passed down the food chain.


Dear Marie,
Lucite heels on wet floors at the glass box place. Irony stole the heat in the pile up of 
nervous rejections.


Dear Marie,
Parched, never thirsty.


Dear Marie,
Or, I remind you that champagne, it is made out of tap water.


Dear Marie, 
This hangover tastes like our desert, so dry and so proud.


Dear Marie,
That will always be us climbing cherry trees in nightgowns opened wide, and a lunchbox 
with Old Golds for inhaling the blight on the branch.

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About Sophia Pfaff-Shalmiyev

I am a writer, photographer and painter living in NW Portland with my son and daughter. I'm still nostalgic. View all posts by Sophia Pfaff-Shalmiyev

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