the night is for thrill seekers, for superheroes and poets; only the morning is for the truly brave.
my life is a winterscape
that which remains is disturbingly strong
and that which ceases is beautifully dead
wandering among the ruins of 3 A.M.
talking to echoes
longing to be beautifully disturbed by ghosts
I write to midnight
To ghosts, trying to stay sober
To soldiers with tattooed arms
To the architect of my dreams
To supernovas and black holes
To burning bridges
To the rain
Writer, I was in love with your expressive hands. I’ve curled up and slept peacefully in the curves of your beautiful o’s and a’s. Soared freely in the space in-between your lines. Touched the wet ink that stained my soul. After you left, I tried to write my own stories instead of living yours. And still, as I wearily sit behind my desk after a long day of work, I can’t help but cut my fingers on the painfully sharp edges of your silent dashes.
Hey, weird kid, don’t worry.
The soil is deep where flowers grow away from the sun.