i'm done wishing
on shooting stars, and
i want to be done with you:
i'll let dust settle
on my telescope,
let dust settle in
my throat, my lungs.
twist your fingers through
my vocal cords,
press your palm to
my lips and tell me, hush
don't wish on things
falling too fast
to hear you
--
maybe i'll wish
on seashells
instead:
they are quiet houses
for muted ghosts, though
more alive than you
have ever been.
i'll let you
pull me under,
paint my eyes
with salt, blind me
so you can murmur, shh
even dead things
can be beautiful
An Adventure- Bilbo x Reader Chpt. 2 by TheBeethatHums, literature
Literature
An Adventure- Bilbo x Reader Chpt. 2
You were laying on the back of your large black point dun gelding, using his neck as a back rest so you could look up at the sky, when Bilbo caught up to the company. A wide smile spread across your face and you slipped from your high perch to greet him with a question, “You’ve decided to join us?”
He nodded, still trying to catch his breath, and you swept him into a hug as you exclaimed, “Fantastic!”
He was unsure of how to respond to your sudden affection but it didn’t matter as you quickly released him to give a wicked grin to the company of dwarves behind you, “Pay up!”
There were a numbe
Losing it (Sherlock x Reader-Drabble) by TheBeethatHums, literature
Literature
Losing it (Sherlock x Reader-Drabble)
“You don’t smoke.”
You puffed out the smoke you were holding in your lungs through your nose, your eyes closed, “You aren’t real.”
Sherlock frowned as you took another long drag of your cigarette and then put it out on his gravestone, shaking your head as if trying to clear your thoughts. You turned and let your eyes slide open, looking at him for only a moment before drifting past him, “You aren’t real. Please go away. John’s already thinking of committing me and I would prefer that not happen.”
“(F/n)…” he called but you kept moving, “I don’t want
She remembered that night better than he did. The way he was dressed, how he talked, what he ate, where he was stayingthe ring on his finger, fresh from January, and it shined under the dim light, her warning sign to stay away; a warning sign she took seriously and knew well. She kept the thought vigilant in her mind with every fidgeted rub to her own naked ringfinger under the table, the ghost of the engagement then and the marriage that never was. Her boyfriend beside her should've been reason enough to resist the obvious magnetism and subsequent temptation, but she found herself captivated by this man of her French homeland, who list
and so lucifer made him by delirious-eyes, literature
Literature
and so lucifer made him
his voice was thickly poured
orange juice,
(concentrated, it seemed-- just for
you) on a
deserted skeleton beach;
sun seeping through
jagged and rustling
timber bones.
but he was
lying through his teeth;
knee-deep in saturated
words that he should've
kept to himself,
and
gritty sand forged instead of his
own name.
("even lucifer at first seemed
beautiful"),
the sun coughed out.
and he just stood there,
black gems in his eyes and
a pitchfork in his
right hand,
finally shedding his
skin.
(at last, i thought.
i found not only the cracks
of his teeth, but
the crook in his jaw.)
clean, now, of your diaries;
sun cut, singed through the brume
pure and guiltless as a virus, white
without a needle eye or task to
lay into your inner brides, the bent
to disturb your wealth of fruit skins
or run my pathos through the calculus
and see my dimples rise as underlings
to terrorize your pond face, scold its careful
glass with frost or lunge into your acquiescence,
the satin cinch for your panoplies,
to make pillows for my wreck.
what am i when i’ve no effigy for doubt,
no biorhythms to sicken with childish bellows from my song?
there is no dormant eggshell to gather up this loss
and nothing left from which to bir