Friday Poetry: "Matchstick Angels"

Hey lovelies!

Friday at last! I don't think I've ever been happier to see the weekend come along - it's been such an off week for me, and I've sort of had to drag myself through it. (Also, it does not help that for some reason I have writer's block, which is odd, because that rarely happens to me. Ugh.)

I do need your feedback on this piece, though, because I've been tweaking it for the past four hours and at this point I have no idea what constitutes good poetry anymore. (It is also 1 in the morning, so that may or may not be part of the issue. ;)) This happens to be the first poem I've written in about two weeks, due to said writer's block, so my skills may be slightly rusty - but as always, I would love to hear your suggestions + thoughts.

Enjoy, everyone - I'll see you on Monday! x

love, Topaz

Matchstick Angels

old heartache, you rise up out of the echoes. I know you. I’ve memorised your skyscraper eyes, your patchwork sins. sometimes stars die. sometimes first loves do, too. darling, you and I, we lost ourselves in the wildfire – but here you are again and I’m thinking there might be something left for us in the ashes.

it’s a familiar melody: police sirens screaming like drunken love songs, and you and I are dancing in the arms of fallen angels. feel the comets slipping like matches through the cracks, and darling, we’re scavenging once more. I’m relearning the maps across your fingers, the dictionaries in your lungs, the ring-ring bicycle bell of I love you and I hate you and where did we go wrong?

perhaps our poetry has changed, but don’t you think the graveyards could miss a few angels tonight?

we both have wandering hearts, darling, but my cinders keep tracing a path back to a boy who smells like smoke and tastes like the home I thought had burned down. old heartbreak, old heartache – the matches. the fire. the ashes. the ring-ring bicycle bell of tying yourself to a burning stake.

second chances are few and far between, but I think I know when it’s time to stop running.

here you are again, darling, and we are not dictionaries or stars or bicycles or love songs, but sinners and saints, whole and human and something so much bigger than the ashes we left behind.