we were burning on fumes of our night
twirling under a somber street light
you seem to echo like vibrations of
the foundation of our limitations
languor pulls, words transcend
we’re spinning in circles
calling for cessation
i used to wonder how this would be
the final conversation
we converse in spirits
in rhymes without reasons
and i take you between fists
not to feel but to grip
between something which feels like this
we’re dancing in paces
stuck in paraphrases
a hundred different faces
could you even fathom?
two atoms and a beat
one atop me
another beneath the street
of where i left you in fall of 23we take meaning out of moments
while the moment still exists
we forget bliss in our desires
building wildfires in the distance
a self destruction
a fixation of self isolation
October 2023
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I fall in love with pages. I fall in love with details. I even fell in love with the way you stand. We become stuck in memories because sometimes that moment is intense enough to pause you.
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i slip between
cracks of the bed
holes between boards
which never end
i’m bowing to ideas i used to call forth for
we contextualize in dark summer nights
the knots of our fingers
i’m bound by words we said
dim of shadows in the purest form
we create chaos in memories
because chaos feels almost at ease -
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i blend into you
our murky water
blurring lines to fill within you
i dance in a darkness
voiding our curse to burn blues
i break to be with you
sleeping on bumps in other places
to think about you
i write in tendencies
thinking how i used to love you
i drip into thoughts
broken bliss
the loneliest abyss
and i kiss in switches
of the deepest, darkest
in drunken transitions
we spoke without words
in cloudy waters
how the frogs sing in the eve
i used to tell you how
you meant everything
yet rapids move with passage
sometimes drunken poetry
is all you can ever bask inmurky waters
words by dominic riccitello -
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burning on fumes of your night
a desolation which feels quite nice
in broken hotel sheets
i can still taste your lips
the transitions between our words
we move in a darkened sensuality
and i’m begging with fists
to grip a moment of security
have you ever felt protected by a stranger?have you ever lied in twists
in dips and sudden splits
i paint you a photo
of a toxic proximity
the way your hands felt like
aggressive masculinity
and i talk in song
in form and all
your mind is gone
we danced before the wall
one astray and one near
a dozen thoughts were never clear
i always said i’d be right here
but have you ever felt
protected by a stranger
or was this always disconnected
we painted a song
one which we accepted
another unfortunately contestedmasculine hands
words by dominic riccitello -
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Nostalgia feels as a sadness because it’s heavy. Thoughts bring moments, and these moments bring weight. It’s not ever truly sadness, but bittersweet. It’s like our hearts calling back to times that moved us, moments that linger. Even with its weight, there’s a quaint beauty in that pull towards what used to be.
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i dance in signs
fine lines of your eyes
the creases of your night
you laugh in tongues
i speak in holds
your dark touches my void
i feel you at ease
fingers twitching
i used to wonder
how you can sleep -
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i weigh on edges, to be broken before him
we dance in chances, to be one with them
and i’m skipping from oasis to chaos
to ecstasy like fish in trapped vases
can you taste it? how it feels to be with themi lie like a thesaurus
in ways you can’t fathom
like a moth to a flame
we always seem to feel at stage
and i’m spinning in this
as if i ever knew what this isto taste your neck
the nostalgic moments i can’t seem to fix
we revel in ideas of this
and i dance around the motions of him
as it feels good to stand before them
to waver in ideas of a mere 6 hours
as if you ever knew it meant more than thisyou’re like spanish oak
the way i caressed your neck
a simple choke
do you still wonder of where i am
do you still wander of who i am
can you still taste my name
on the back of your neck
where we said so many delicacy’si often wonder what this was
if daisies could smell their own scent
we are often broken by divide
two minuscule beings
torn between two different places
twirling on wavering stagesseventeen years
words by dominic riccitello
