Dried Petals , livre ebook

Dried Petals
Aya Louafi
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-07-31
Dried Petals About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgements Foreign Name Unlaced Shoes Faux Pas Scent Your Love The Boy The Girl Mother’s Words I Wonder Only Way Burn Crafty Thief Someday Your Ghost Captive Peace Drop of Paint Mine Ruins Wild Ocean Oblivion Fragrance Brittle Bones Purples and Blues Stars and Freckles Torn Edges Deepest Wound Sparkling Orbs Hold On Tipsy Shards Memories Waiting Swallow Her Salty Waters Running Hazel Eyes Shallow Promises Paper and Ink Untouched Autumn Leaves Alone Stars and Galaxies Poem Romantic Tragedy Afraid Beautiful Broken Dream Lost Poet Cracks Love Meant to Be Fire On the Edge Stains
About the Author
Aya Louafi was born and raised in Casablanca. She’s a college student, poetess, and a dreamer. She has discovered the ecstasy of writing for the first time in her early teenage years, and couldn’t stop ever since. Her poetry is a reflection of her thoughts and emotions and mainly of what love can be, what it gives to you and takes back from you.
Dedication
For my beautiful mother
and for everyone who
found going back to earth is
so hard after
having a taste of paradise.
Copyright Information ©
Aya Louafi (2020)
The right of Aya Louafi to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This is a poetry book, which is a product of the author’s imagination. It reflects the author’s recollections of experiences over time. Any resemblance to other works of poetry, quotes, slogans, to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528981170 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528981187 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgements
To all the wonderful people that matter, you know yourselves. Thank you and thank you again.

The boy who made love sound so simple.
He smelt like hell, but lord I never thought the devil could taste this sweet.
Because the bruises he left me are fading away, and only words could hold him forever.
Foreign Name
I am drinking
coffee when
your name
feels foreign on
my tongue, your
voice becomes a
muffled echo I
can’t decipher, and
my head doesn’t
know how to make
out the blur that is
your face.
Suddenly you are
no more than a
cut I got by
accident, it will scar
just to fade later,
leaving me forgetting who
carved it on my
flesh in the first
place.
I wanted us
to be more than a
bunch of sad poems and a
broken heart, but
I am only a dreamer
and you a wounded
beast disguised as
a metaphor.
Take every word
that has dropped
from these lips
and go, for
there is
nothing left to
add to a love that
was sentenced to
death.
Unlaced Shoes
Half-drunken
tea cups,
lips so dry.
Unlaced
shoes,
and a
broken lie.
I count the
words left
before the
last poem,
the last line, the
last promise
that will make
me believe that
there’s no spell
capable of
making the
illusion of me
and you feel
a little bit more
real.
For our
love not once
did it pass
the borders
of ink and paper.
I run my fingers
over the mist
of the window
in the shape
of your
name, to
remember
what it was
like to have
you against
my skin without
burning it.
I take every
paper with
your scent
on it and
put it
on the
bruises you
left me so
my body wouldn’t
forget
the lover
who once
claimed it
as his, for in
the midst of
unfinished prose
and French songs,
we let reality pass
us by.
Faux Pas
I’m the kind of
girl you would
call a faux pas.
On the days
you would press me
against you and
say that loving me
is diving into
a pool of iced cubs
on a hot summer
night, I’ll be digging
my nails in the back
of my knee to know
what it is like to be
in the arms of a man
who isn’t mine.
I’m the kind of girl
who you would have one-sided talks
with.
There’ll be times
when my ears will turn deaf
only to your voice, for
I’ll be busy thinking if
your hair smelt like
burnt paper or wet
matchsticks, and if
your lips indeed felt
like chewed-on
marshmallows against my own.
I’m the kind of girl
your mother warned
you about.
I’ll fool you into
trading your heart
for mine, just to
lay them together
and crush them both.
For these hands only know how to turn
beauty into destruction
and destruction into
words.
I’m the kind of girl
who would give
your feet blisters
from the hours you
will stand on my
doorstep, holding
the promise of a
future in your palm.
For, darling, having
me would be like
trying to catch air:
the tighter your grip
on me gets, the quicker
I’ll slip through your
fingers.