poem
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The tilt of you, the fractures where the light slips in. I trace your doubts like constellations. Your mistakes beg for reverence, a desperate proof of life. I shaped you into a vision without weight, perfection hollowing all meaning until I warped your memory just to survive. There is no hesitation in standing bare, skin
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I once lived in the warmth of brown eyes, Believing they held all the light I needed. A gaze that wrapped my world in quiet surrender, Whispering promises, bending reason. But in a single moment, the color shifted, And what I knew unraveled into blue. Brown dissolved into a distant echo, While blue became the
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I used to think that love could make time stop, but he taught me time is irrelevant. He could infuriate me like no one else, and I don’t think I’ve ever been more exasperated with someone. I could never bring myself to intentionally hurt him. Yet, the fear of missing out on something so painfully
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When I turn away he finds me A hand to my jaw a look I can’t outrun He doesn’t move like he’s thinking he moves like breath like instinct like the step between desire and permission We don’t speak in answers we speak in breath in steps in touches that say stay And eyes that
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In the search for love, perhaps all a soul truly needs is to be present in Manhattan. Falling in love with New York City is a perilous affair, for it is not merely the city itself that captivates us, but rather the person we aspire to become, leaving behind the mediocrity of our past. When
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2 of 3 Do not ask me for advice, I am without my love. Do not ask me how I live without. Ask me about the weather. For he is the beautiful storm, the cloud over my head, and why I pray for rain. It is a troubled feeling, longing for someone. Losing them in
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I can sit in a park and watch people for hours; their vague denial entertains me. That or I crave naivety. We have lost the art of discernment in this world. I am no saint. My impairment comes with a boy. Cliché. Unoriginal, but lays kindle to a fire that keeps me warm at night.
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You cannot fight a ghost; feelings and people alike. When I sleep, my demons linger at night; each face bears a resemblance to people I’ve known in life. A cemetery for my tragedies settles in my mind. I’m haunted by my lack of strength and self-deprecating pride. A Trimester is worth a lifetime of guilt;
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Fantasy kissing the cheek of reality was the birth of my mania. The innate beauty of life is addicting to me, and I underestimate the pain that comes with it. I forget the company Pain keeps— how Loneliness is a friend of a friend, and just as deadly. Those two make the world feel foreign.
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I’m used to this feeling. Moving on doesn’t hurt so much anymore. My feet stopped dragging last month. My lungs no longer feel on the verge of collapse. I think you conditioned a certain kind of break— somewhere between my kisses and hers. The realization hit quietly: wanting something—someone—too badly can take the fun out
Wishful Thinking 