Butch Femme · lesbian blog · Uncategorized

Backward Clocks


She wasn’t the sun, but the dew that sank into my skin,

leaving behind a storm always brewing just under her fingertips,

stilled, my soul scatters

among the ruins,

a forest filled with secret places, a shore where the waves

pour over dunes,

my sky darkens with her kindness,

my soul wanders in the clouds that gather drops,

watching from the other side of sunset,

cracking open like the thunder,

every memory on backward clocks,

I watch the hours every minute,

close my eyes to the river’s rumble,

even there in the darkness her light is in it,

there’s an ocean in this puddle,

the seduction, the reflection,

braided into my spirit,

the pull of her fingers,

weaving memories made, not bought,

whispers close enough to the angels

that I still hear it,

like the wind sways the branch

bending like its touch was sought,

there’s expectation in the dawn,

a ghost that lives beyond the dark and light,

strings of colored light wrap around,

but my rainbow shines alone,

my heart has taken flight…but she will always be its home



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