I thought you lips spoke the rivers;

by Matthew Burgos
by Matthew Burgos

I listened to the sound of the river’s ripples. The rush of crystal’s excitement filled my hollow hearing. I sat on the slippery land beside the blue fluids—could I catch your name when it flowed with the water?

Behind my bruised back, the dark forest lingered to smother me with its branches and hymns. Every after minute, a crack would go off to the nature—the distraction caused my head to swivel; it might be you.

At last, the moon rose above the suicidal skies; the illumination it gave spoke about her earlier tears.

Another crack eluded the lethal trees.

There was a gleam in the river.

I killed my curiosity on the forest’s hymns when I snatched the red flesh of the river—it beat at an unhurried rate, but I could not hear my name.

Someone behind me called my name.

I turned to see your head—afloat. “I have been looking for you,” but I knew you lied.

I might be carrying your heart between my trembling fingers, but, beneath your own revelation tonight, I knew I only lived inside your head.


Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

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