Alondra Blick: Art, Design & Photography | RedBubble

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This is not a love poem.No gardenia blooms forever. No courtyards echo with faint music. Paris is destroyed by bombs and Argentina sinks under a rising sea-level.

poem to a man i loved.you were a farmhouse burning in an empty field and if i was an artist painting your eyes that is what i would paint.

how to win a breakup.never say you’re sorry and whatever the hell you do, never be the first one to call back, to talk back, to fall back in love.

if there was a way to you.this is me blushing as the winter burns its way into spring. this is me writing you a letter in the dark, hoping you will carry it for for …

a poem to the men near and far.to the balconies of stars we left hanging across north and south continents, and the memories that i can do nothing with or without.

back home for christmas.Christmas this year is the rain and the empty strip malls and you, awake before the buses are / even running.

in a car with the lights out.there is a boy, a bright white light of a boy with swan eyes and a voice like the flood water rising slowly in an empty room.

in the folds of the seasons.shuffling through the speechless snowdrifts as evening falls. We are always in search of nothing and nothing is what we have found.

since you left.I knew somewhere, a cigarette was touching your lips. you who are gone from me. you who my hands no longer know.

my dear.my love for you is born a thousand, dies a thousand deaths each time you open your sleepy hollow eyes.

the evening fable.Combed the moss out of their fragile eyes. I said, the birds will not find you here you do not need to fear anything of their lonely call.

lately.dried my hair, walked to work and watched the whole world stabbing itself repeatedly in the back.

the chronicles.your eyes would lift the morning up, like a heavy winged thing, like great birds who move the moon at night through an oil slick sky.

remember that, always.The smell of thunder when you lifted your hand past me to light a cigarette. The perfect sorrow of sadness and smoke.

the death of horses.In a wide field, I am wrapped in the coat you bought for me. It is cold and the air smells of snow.

dear, when I.Occasionally news of you reaches me. A sailboat thrown by the tides or a wind caught in a harbor of tall trees. My heart has set out a sing…

for a friend.And in all my memories there is a cigarette half lit. Smoke curling like the last ripple after a drowning.

recoleta by Alondra Blick

san telmo is blooming.Thousands of tiny pink flowers until the streets are a slow river of petals.

things they never told me.your soft back turning over in the morning. the cold times huddled under january streetlamps. and the way your eyes made me lurch with a jo…

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