Every interaction between us from here on and my every excuse to touch your face
happens in a different pocket of reality where it is an eternal halloween in a
two-storied shotgun house.
This October,
My thoughts
Are brittle as snow
And not nebulous.
This October,
All I need
Is to not be me.
This October,
I want to be forgotten
Rather than be known
Every memory with you feels like a lifetime ago. Your Speedmaster still makes the same
ticking noise, but I can no longer decipher what it says.
In a way, my life stopped at sixteen, but your hands held all the tenderness I have ever had in
my life. Now and again, I try to track you on the radio to see how far long you are on your
resplendent journey on the other side of everything, and I just assume the journey you are
on is long; there is no way for me to know. If you ever want to tell me about it, I am still in
your room grappling with 2018 and trying my best not to sink.
You are an out-of-season flower
And you keep asking everyone
If they identify with Kierkegaard’s
Either//Or.
Snow,
A drive-in,
Soft glowing street lamps,
Softer lips,
Abrasions to the lips and jaw,
Sharing a Mortlach in a freight train yard.
I am no longer screaming
To portend the inevitable anymore.
All the gas station rum
flowing through my blood,
Is twisting my stomach into knots.
I am no longer waiting
For God.
Even though God
Has always been here
Everywhere and in every instance
Where I have suffered,
God would not be so kind
To intervene in suffering
He had a direct hand in effectuating.
I have never concerned myself with divinity.
Lofty concerns, as such,
stay on the rim of the eyes
Of virtuoso and priests.
I have only known this existence,
And have only cared for you.
Every interaction between us from here on and my every excuse to touch your face happens in a different pocket of reality where it is an eternal halloween in a two-storied shotgun house.
I don’t know how to start this,
All I hope for is
Nobody else relates to these
Words I have written for you.
This is the only happy ending I get, and I do not get this nostalgia I feel for a place I’ve never been.
I am writing this at six am in the morning
At the back of a nearly expired milk carton.
Of late, it has dawned on me how I never got to ask you
Why do you hate that patient in ward 5088 so much?
It feels strange to think about how 2013 was over a decade ago or to think back to a period of my life where I did not overdo whatever sustenance I could get my hands on. Even if the distance between us is now a couple of floors in our freshman dorm, it feels longer than the entirety of the Pacific Ocean. And all the love I had saved up for you inside the glove compartment of my CX-30 has waned away,
It’s 2000 again.
It’s the dawn of the new millennium
From the dawn of a new world To the end of one world And the birth of another.
As I sit in an airport
The sky has been damp for over seventy-two hours at this point, and I have been in this tavern writing this for approximately forty-eight minutes. With Coin plodding along at the back and feelings rising over intellect, a mental collapse is duly.
A prominent trend among the urban populace and anyone’s social circle is that, in general, is how most of us care about how our potential romantic interests fit into the pre-existing narrative of our lives, among our friends, what their beliefs are, and so on.
A prominent trend among the urban populace and anyone’s social circle is that, in general, is how most of us care about how our potential romantic interests fit into the pre-existing narrative of our lives, among our friends, what their beliefs are, and so on.
My brother’s Omega Speedmaster is now fourteen years old. The ticking sound it makes, in my head, translates to an answering machine that keeps repeating the message “Sorry, we are not here” in a vacuum. I have always feared nostalgia melded with grief, and the wild sheep chases it sends people on.
You as a transient dream, not lasting, unbeknownst to me, Asking me how long it has taken for me to get here I’m hesitant to tell you how I had to make A bargain or how I had to pawn off My light brick radio that only played Velvet Underground To afford a kayak to get to where you are.
It’s been over a year since I moved cities, and with it, I felt a new sense of longing and loneliness. Previously, I would have dealt with these anxieties and familiar feelings by consuming copious amounts of caffeine or obsessively obsessing over all the things that have gone wrong in the past and the things that could go wrong now
Right now, it’s too early in June
For the runaways to feel this akin
To waiting for moments That never ended up happening.
And it’s too deep in the morning
To look in the mirror and find
I love that deafening hour at any party, where everyone’s eyes are akin to driving away, to a familiar place that only holds the nostalgia of what was. You can tell from the shape of their voices they are all stuck in a pain they cannot get away from.
You can grow as a person. Be better or worse. But you can never be a wholly different person. All the shitty things you’ve done will always be a part of you, and you must take responsibility for them forever. Similarly, all the good things you’ve done will be a part of you. Your genetics, environment, surroundings, everything has had an interest in who you’re. You can’t escape determinism and fate and become someone else
So I have decided to leave you.
With a bell jar filled with poorly represented feelings.
And an inquiry into the nature of our kind of pain
Will reveal
You’ve built your world with such perfect pieces that
I’ve now made peace with the fact