The loneliness has settled into my rattling bones. I’m never done to talking to echoes.
and now we spend our final days
waiting for twilight to deepen
for night to obscure the edges
of humanity’s aching soul—
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
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.
The soil is deep where flowers grow away from the sun.
there’s a way to remain
a dead poet is only as dead as his words
You may not believe me, but these jagged stripes across my chest are actually tell-tale scars. There was a time in which I could look at them with some amused distance, thinking they looked interesting, like crawling centipedes, or feebly stirring branches, or perhaps desolated railroads. Oh yes, I looked for comfort in all these silly metaphors, for shouldn’t I be grateful that my body, though damaged, is like a train still moving, still advancing?
But over the years I have grown prone to melancholy, the kind that makes me want to sleep in the afternoon and lay awake at night, listening to the city’s familiar cries, a melody of busy traffic, creaking insects and trees stirred by the storm. That’s when these scars, mimicking the abandoned railroads on my heart, start to whisper that I should set them free by letting someone run their gentle fingers over them.