art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
The Tip of My Tongue
One I wake up building ancient cities in my head, pulling strands from the sun into my fingertips and enlivening the universe. I wake up with sand in my eyes and dust drifting in beams of light, things falling out of balance and into place. I wake up to the most beautiful sunrise I've ever seen. (I'm pretty sure I imagined it.) I wake up with brilliance today, and I may never go back to sleep. Everything I've ever wanted is on the tip of my tongue, the tip of my tongue, the tip of my tongue, so close I can taste it. I wake up to my future built with stardust in the night and the only thing missing is you. I wake up with the emotional nausea that accompanies distance, that nests comfortably in your body, tying your stomach in knots and erecting tombs in your chest, when your other half is an image, a thought not capable of steering you by your shoulders. I wake up with this emotional nausea, and I drink a glass of water, and I shower, and I maybe cry a little (because water is the cleansing cure for everything, and I rinse myself at least twice daily), and I am okay. Because the light in my room looks gentle, like the sun is holding me, cradling my body in its rays and handing me off to the room as my day settles and I drift into sleep.
By Amelia Clare Wright7 years ago in Poets
