“my soul bleeds sanguine songs of sorrow at the distance between the days when I can lay lips upon the longing that burns like fire in every fiber of my being”
In poetry we say “my soul bleeds sanguine songs of sorrow at the distance between the days when I can lay lips upon the longing that burns like fire in every fiber of my being”
In love we show “ good morning love I made you coffee, let’s stay in bed a little longer and you can tell me about your day”
In poetry we say,
“I would cross lifetimes barefoot on burning stars
just to taste the sound of your laughter again,
to drink from the wellspring of your gaze
and be reborn in its reflection.”
In love we show,
“I picked up your favorite bread from the market.
You looked tired,
so I folded the laundry and left the light on.”
In poetry we say,
“Your absence carves cathedrals into my chest,
and I light candles in the hollow halls,
singing psalms in your name
to the god of once-was.”
In love we show,
“I missed you today—
not in a dramatic way,
just in the way I noticed the sunset
and wished you’d seen it too.”
In poetry we say,
“My body is an altar
and your name, the only offering I’ve ever made
that set the world on fire.”
In love we show,
“Come closer.
You’re safe here.
Let me rub your back
until the day melts off your shoulders.”
In poetry we say,
“If the stars fell tonight,
I would gather them into a crown
and lay it at your feet,
declaring you the queen of every heartbeat.”
In love we show,
“Here—take the last bite.
I know it’s your favorite.”
In poetry,
I tear open the seams of silence
with syllables stitched from yearning,
my soul bleeding sanguine songs of sorrow—
aching ballads for the absence
of your fingers in my hair,
your breath behind my ear,
your weight like a promise
pressed into the curve of dawn.
I write of fire in the bones,
of galaxies collapsed in the chest,
of love that howls in cathedral echoes
when your name leaves my lips like a prayer
to a god I only believe in
when I remember the way
your eyes undressed the sky.
But in love—
you hand me a cup warm with intention,
not poetry,
but presence.
You pull me into sheets heavy with history,
not metaphor,
but memory.
You listen,
not to rhyme,
but to rhythm—
the soft tempo of my realness,
the stutter in my voice
when I tell you about something small
that made me feel
like the world still holds beauty
In poetry, we make the sky weep
and the earth moan in longing.
In love,
we do the dishes,
kiss the back of a neck,
and never stop choosing
to stay.
And somehow,
this may be the most passionate poem
ever spoken
Larson Langston
In love we show “ good morning love I made you coffee, let’s stay in bed a little longer and you can tell me about your day”
In poetry we say,
“I would cross lifetimes barefoot on burning stars
just to taste the sound of your laughter again,
to drink from the wellspring of your gaze
and be reborn in its reflection.”
In love we show,
“I picked up your favorite bread from the market.
You looked tired,
so I folded the laundry and left the light on.”
In poetry we say,
“Your absence carves cathedrals into my chest,
and I light candles in the hollow halls,
singing psalms in your name
to the god of once-was.”
In love we show,
“I missed you today—
not in a dramatic way,
just in the way I noticed the sunset
and wished you’d seen it too.”
In poetry we say,
“My body is an altar
and your name, the only offering I’ve ever made
that set the world on fire.”
In love we show,
“Come closer.
You’re safe here.
Let me rub your back
until the day melts off your shoulders.”
In poetry we say,
“If the stars fell tonight,
I would gather them into a crown
and lay it at your feet,
declaring you the queen of every heartbeat.”
In love we show,
“Here—take the last bite.
I know it’s your favorite.”
In poetry,
I tear open the seams of silence
with syllables stitched from yearning,
my soul bleeding sanguine songs of sorrow—
aching ballads for the absence
of your fingers in my hair,
your breath behind my ear,
your weight like a promise
pressed into the curve of dawn.
I write of fire in the bones,
of galaxies collapsed in the chest,
of love that howls in cathedral echoes
when your name leaves my lips like a prayer
to a god I only believe in
when I remember the way
your eyes undressed the sky.
But in love—
you hand me a cup warm with intention,
not poetry,
but presence.
You pull me into sheets heavy with history,
not metaphor,
but memory.
You listen,
not to rhyme,
but to rhythm—
the soft tempo of my realness,
the stutter in my voice
when I tell you about something small
that made me feel
like the world still holds beauty
In poetry, we make the sky weep
and the earth moan in longing.
In love,
we do the dishes,
kiss the back of a neck,
and never stop choosing
to stay.
And somehow,
this may be the most passionate poem
ever spoken
Larson Langston
