shallow breaths

move only if you must.
stay a while longer. linger
for love will not create for us.
we remain as we were.

eternity will not come
despite our promises.
hold me and i will cling,
living in your now.

hold me and i will cling.
stir only if you must.
the world continues to turn
but we, we will remain still.

-

a slow wilting into stillness
art giving way to form
no, ravaged.
yes, ravaged by a graceless need
to belong
to stand out
to glory in a trifecta
of precision, accuracy, uniformity.
masterful.
glorious.
it is
neither.

you aren't that different from me

you aren't that different from me.
when your hands reach down to touch mine,
they have substance, weight, and a texture
almost exactly like my own.

when you speak and my eyes remain still,
beneath lids tainted with the pigments of the earth,
i find denotation and sound aren't changed
despite our stark contrast in shade.

you aren't that different from me.
my world isn't a canvas dictated by color,
by slants, by intonation, and height.
you aren't that different from me but there is difference still;

i perceive depth despite.

living along the margins

My soul lies awake tonight as if it has never known rest.
It lies awake at the memory of your name.

The recesses of my mind echo with but one sound.
Your name echoes in the recesses of my mind.

I am allowed no rest, no sleep.
You have taken, with you, my rest, my sleep.

At the sacrilege of voicing thought, the stars burn out.
Your name allows no utterance and thus I remain mute.

I live haunted and bound wide-eyed.
Your name haunts me and I live not if not to be bound.

I am reborn with the knowledge of your name.
With knowledge only of your name, I am still-born.

still frames

your hands draw forth mechanic whirring
with short outbursts of electromagnetic radiation
streaming from flights of infinitesimal beelzebubs
wrapped in metal casings

i am amused, enthused, brought to laughter
imploring to remain within the ritualistic frameworks
of you paying homage to me or a likeness thereof
mirroring two-dimensional affectations on chemically-coated paper

i exist through captivity, imprisoned in dark rooms:
refuge to stolen souls sucking breath out of otherwise healthy men.
i exist through you. in a vacuum created from sensitised metal
requisitioning cognition and thought, incapable yet still smiling

broken families, no matter what anyone does, always feel broken

how long does it take to forget? what does it take to finally be able to say we've moved on? i see your message on the screen, bridging the seas and vast tracts of land separating us. and even through the distance, i feel my body tense with uncertainty. what do i say? how do i convince myself that i feel hardly anything at this possibility of contact? i cringe at the thought that you are real. i shudder at the realization that it was only i who denied your existence.

but what would you have me do? i am torn. i am broken. i am lost and you have been shattered. shattered into the tiniest fragments that memory has allowed. shattered and scattered across time, across space that i will not occupy. i've forgotten you. i don't remember how it felt to have once been complete. i plead for the mercy of forgetting you. i beg for reprieve from a litany of words threatening to make me long for what has long been dead. when will you let me go? when will you allow me to forget you?

it has been too long and yet you've brought it all back with just one word.

missing you, i wonder how you look now,
wonder if you still do that little habit with your fingers

i remember you as if it was only yesterday
and realize it is only in yesterday that i have the courage to remember.

when sunrise is still a dream

The night hosts a sea of darkness as we hide in the pause of our prolonged purgatory. Resting place of the weary. Haunting grounds of waiting souls.

"Are you cold?", you ask, straining to sit closer.

"Not at all," I whisper knowing no sound will bridge the barren space around you.

(It must have been so hard for you. We were so unhappy. )
Tears course down your soft cheeks. What can I do but hold you?

"I'm happy. I've always been so happy."

And the night watches, cradling my lies, forgiving me my inconsistencies.

why mornings are so cruel

day 1

He woke up. Frying pans. Plates. Egg. Rice. It has begun. And he watched the steam, rising from his still warm coffee, brew war.

"Did I get the eggs right?"
A nod of acknowledgement with the clatter of spoon and fork.

٭

day 2

The whisper of a name yanks him from a cocoon of dreamlessness. Palpitations. Voiceless cursing. Humidity of new day. And only a dim awareness of droplets of sweat persisting, forming, nagging and winning.

"Hush now. You've just been dreaming."

A hand running through bedraggled hair with the resounding drop of a head on the pillow.

٭

day 3

There is nothing but his eyes flutter open. Sleep chased away. Weight. And there is nothing more painful than having to peel off covers wrapped around, stuck tight to the skin.

“It’s there today.”

Not even a stare with the rustle of the broadsheet’s pages to the obituaries.

٭

day 4

He is awake and watches dawn shatter through the blinds, conquering the empty room. Troubled breathing. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes. And he waits.

“Are you ready?”

A black pin placed over his heart with the assent of silence.

٭

day 5

He woke up. Frying pans. Plates. Egg. Rice. It will continue. And he watched the steam rising from his still warm coffee brew war.

first meetings

In the beginning, there was only the spark of something, barely an inkling of familiarity, and only a sense of a rather awkward hesitation. There never arose a need to act. For action would, in its typically vulgar manner, destroy the anticipation cleverly hidden in our brief and tight-lipped encounters.

Polite conversation. A brief nod. Perhaps a small smile every now and again. A clever story about common friends if luck allowed. Supressed glances. The fanning of cheeks that have become much too affected. Pleasantries. An indescribable attraction to describing the weather. And the widening gap that lingers in between.

Because at the very start of everything, there is only the turning over of possibilities in the presence of famished silence.

content

Maybe it's something as simple as eating ice cream on a bench together. With the still night sky not being particularly clear and a patient moon not seeming at all that extraordinary. A plain evening with all its routines and customary bothers. No soft music or dimmed candlelights. No traces of roses or promises of a stolen kiss. No furtive glances or increased heart rates. Nothing at all. Just ice cream and being together.