forever january
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About: over a decade of musings, ramblings, and nonsense (circa 2001-2013)

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( home/holes in the heart )

And this is how I offer myself to you, you who has appeared at this worn door uninvited. I welcome you in with coffee and tea, I pad this inner world with moss and feather down for your comfort. I hide the broken pieces, sweep under the rug the loose ends of my soul. This must be new for you, this must be clean. In the moments I think I am lacking, unworthy of you, I slice off slivers of myself, all the bits I think you may find unattractive. All these years of making nests for people deep in the recesses of my heart, and I have become a master of spiritual vivisection.

— (harmaatahti)

( snowglobe world )

We trace the lines of our world,
     curved and smooth,
     femurs and thighs.
I pull you close,
     hand on your chest,
     breathing you in.
And in this moment,
     the world is a halcyon haze,
     a moth among the stars.
I bask in the warmth and wish
     that we could stay awhile in
     this snowglobe world, our kingfisher’s nest
Until the stars burn out.

— (harmaatahti)

( entropic love )

I accept that love is entropic.
Heat dies, passion escapes.
And a once brilliant flame follows in
the footsteps of dying stars.

But my heart rejects the science,
eschews the logic of natural degradation.
I am held together by Hope’s string,
bound en masse by fine filaments of aspiration,
wound so tight-like between and through the heart.

Synapses fire off such dreams, gossamer-clad,
And my blood hums—
     ‘Ad astra per aspera!

But once we find that celestial Xanadu,
and come to the place where sacred waters ran
between the interstices of bloomed hope,
We are too wearied from the wandering
between the dark places.
All the stars are dead.

— (harmaatahti)

I mete out Life’s hours, minutes, days
Like drops of water into desert sand.
They disappear into the æther,
Ephemeral and derelict.
Our memory is nothing but flotsam
On a dead ocean’s shore.

— (harmaatahti)

The sounds of aquariums and water tanks can make a person go insane with repetitive boredom. It also makes my heart lonely, thoughts travelling across a pale white plain, crossing over a rounded mountain top, and then reaching the realm of the vocal cords. But they have long since forgotten the Siren’s Song. 

I miss you, dove. I miss your ethereal caresses and night-time whispers. I miss your beautiful smile, which shined in a world full of darkness. 

You shined for me in my dreams.

— (harmaatahti)

Could there be a moment when the sea sighs, I want to be there; Oh my mother—Earth—and bright father—Sun—how dear you are to me, for you taught me freedom of the soul.

— (harmaatahti)

( tigress. tempest. burning forever. )

And—sometimes I cannot help but loathe the tempest in my heart, the way my blood courses hot and thick through me, feline & feral. I am impetuous, fervent, ardent in my affections. And in the moments you stared at me with glacial eyes and rough hands caressed my milk-clad hip, the inner tigress in my bones purred. How could any woman with so much fire and conflagration combusting under her skin practise patience, practise control? My stars I want you, my bones were humming. Do you think this is wise? I could have whispered. We need to wait, I should have said.

Instead I dug my nails into your shoulders and kissed you, because patience and prudence can’t quell the raging, rolling maelstrom surging in my veins. Just you, just me, just us—and these atomic kisses that set forests on fire.

I am incandescent, a tiger woman to my core, all sparks and tinder under this cool façade. My heart burns as its own raging pyre, set aflame from one glance of cool blue and skin against skin.

— (harmaatahti)

to a love now ended (drip drop)

If I could rewind the tick-tick
          drip
                   drip
          of time—
I would stop at the juncture
where my fingers
ran up the length of your spine and
small nails dug into your shoulders.
I would bask in the moments where
the pale moonlight illuminated your
skin in the darkness and
the sheets smelled of you—
          of us—
and my head swam in a sea
of heady intoxication.
I would linger between the hours
where my cheek rested
on your chest and your hand wove
tangled nests into my hair.
And if I could break the tick-tock
          drip
                   drop
          of time—
I would hover at the apex
of these little moments
          —in the throes of an inebriating night
I would whisper—
          ever softly—
          words petal rounded—
          lips velvet clad—
I love you
          and I wish you could have loved me, too.

— (harmaatahti)

( that moment in time, when it shall be )

& when we meet for the first time, i’ll be red-lipped and jasmine scented, arterial red and black forming a spiraling corona around my head. & i hope you know the forest and the sea surges in my veins; i hope you appreciate the molecular stardust in my heart.

— (harmaatahti)

( more than you can handle )

I asked him if he read literature, if poetry spoke to his heart. He laughed at me, called me too serious, never realising he was too blind to see that in those words lie the essence of the human soul, distilled down and poured onto paper. “You just want a warm body,” I said to him, “and I am so much more. I’m foxfire and poetry with stardust in my veins. You’ll simply never know.”

— (harmaatahti)