Poem: 3 in the morning (God loves you)

Poem: 3 in the morning (God loves you)

Sometimes at night
I think of you
(I’m lying – I always think of you)
There’s nothing else I’d rather do
It’s the bittersweet sting of being hopelessly enamored with you

The more you want it, the farther away it becomes
You stay up late and say you’ll sleep next to the sun
He says he’s running late, but he never does come
That’s the sad truth about not being the only one
I twirl my hair
I spin around
I choke so hard I fall to the ground
And if you calculated my efforts, I’d pay by the pound
I’m lost in abysmal and undulating surround sound

He put black padding on the walls to keep the voices quiet
Asked me what my favourite wine was and said that he’d buy it
Passed me angel dust, but I said I won’t try it
This time I’m not lying
It hurts more to keep trying
Don’t blame it on timing
If I am dust, you are worn out leather from a cow that loved to live and breathe fresh air
You ran your fingers through my soft, blonde hair
I knew you were unaware
You had me right there
You had me

Boys have short attention spans, so I’m working on making my poems shorter
As if a somber gaze doesn’t scratch at the envelope
As if the disposable cardboard coaster I kept from the bar we went to last year isn’t practically at its wit end
But I stare at it at night and I like to pretend
That you and I will never end
(You spin me round and round, you scream, you bend)
I only liked when you were drinking
Because you never stopped talking
And I could listen to your words for endless summer days

I’m watching my step
I’m too sharp for this town
I reached the vault of heaven, but you pushed me back down
And every time I walk away from you, I turn right back around
You’re the most beautiful thing that I have ever found

And if you want me, please tell me
That’s all that I ask
Because I don’t know how much longer
I can contain this chaotic energy, it’s only a setback
It pays for my grave
Collects debt at the tollbooth
Serves me a clean slate I can’t afford and makes it taste like dry vermouth
A botanical celestial atmosphere where there was you and I appeared and you said come here, baby girl, my doe-eyed dear
Please, my angel, don’t you ever disappear

I say never
Won’t do it
I’ll always be here

But you’re so distant from me that my words sound unclear
And the walls are blurry and they’re bleeding red
And I bought pink satin sheets for my queen-sized bed
And I wait every night for you to come fall sleep
But if your love cuts my skin, it doesn’t go very deep
If your flaws were secrets, they’d be mine to keep
And I replay your laugh in my mind on fucking repeat

I know only one thing that’ll make me complete
But if it’s me against her, I’m too weak to compete
I am a glacier dissolving in sunburns and aggressive summer heat
But I still thank God because he arranged for us to meet
I know it as much as I love the window seat
But I see you and her, so I make a spreadsheet
Of all the ways this is going to kill me
Please stop, only you can heal me
I need you like candy
I crave all of you
I know that my hopes are too good to be true
So I lay on the concrete, I only see in ocean-blue

I scream at God for letting me fall in love with you
It’s 3 in the morning
There’s nothing else to do

© Elle Silvestrov

I only liked when you were drinking
Because you never stopped talking
And I could listen to your words for endless summer days

Poem: 3 in the morning (God loves you)

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New update

I have added an audio note to my SoundCloud page of me reading my poem “Lying in a field of flowers.
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Elle
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Poem: 3 missed calls

I want to fall in love

flowers, bouquet, floral

Would you rather keep all the memories you have up until now?
Or start all over again
I ask you while we’re walking alongside the fog, the mountains
The sea on the other side
Would you want to live this life over?
I pick at a four-leaf clover
Come over for dinner, and let’s go out for dessert
I want to fall in love
But I don’t want it to hurt
I dig through the dirt

The sea on the other side

But I don’t want it to hurt

I feel lost and alone
Statements I never thought I’d share
I’ve shed enough of my personality to the point where I’m rebuilding it
Look at me in this black dress, how’s the fit of it?
I have panic attacks, I can’t manage it
But I do
I do

Sunday evening, watching the news
Holding the baby
You come in, new vinyl in, midtown Blues
Just thinking, I think I found a clue
About what you’re about to do
You feed off opportunity, I’ll catch up to you

pink, rose, flower
Collapsing all of the time

Going 120 miles per hour, I need the sky to go from blue to grey
I can’t stand up straight when things don’t go my way
I fall into the warm bath
Slip under, wet my long hair
Blue and blues and blue again
Turn me into someone I’m not
Tell me it’s my phone number you’ve forgot
My voicemail at the end of your beat on SoundCloud
Think you can bring a tough crowd?
You, and your life — are you proud?
It’s 500 Fahrenheit
Am I shouting too loud?
Too distracted trying to deal, barely making a sound

In a daze- it’s a familiar haze

I slip and fall into the bath
Wash my hair, scrub my porcelain face
Trying not to have a third panic attack
The dial kept going, you said you’d call right back
I’m a masterpiece in God’s eyes
I’m a drug in them guys’ eyes

But when I look at myself
(And I’m screaming and shouting)
And I pull my hair out
(And I’m screaming and shouting)
And the fog rolls in
(And I’m screaming and –

3 missed calls

blue lagoon, pool, swimming

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Il n’est nul besoin de la présenter.

A young, courageous & feminine adult who wears dresses year-round / Seeking to make life more romantic. Loves the most to be photographing flowers, and urban & chaotic settings and imagery. Spending hours in rose gardens is heaven.

I am not immune to the wonders of the darkness; at times this is where I recoil. But this new, grand gesture of stepping out into the hot sunshine has left me with flushed cheeks and a warm hospitality. / An introvert, an ambivalent trajectory, multiple passes for cursing despite attempts to be more polite. Writes poems while waiting in line. Flirts with language.

Writing preserves memories, and I need those. I wonder where this will take me.

portland rose test garden
OCTOBER 6, 2019