I once held on mere words to prove that I
was worth the fragments of your thoughts that once
fell from the depth I once saw on the pile
of forgotten list of lovers you liked
to keep away from the pens of poets.
Ink and paper were all I could keep from
the cold burning of life, death, heaven, you–
forever in the stones of yesterdays.
You were dressed in white.
And I swear, at that moment, I knew you were going to be the death of me.
Romanticism was dead, but I wanted to tell myself that I could believe in something more than the emptiness of our liberal lives.
You scared me because your light blinded the void.
Yet, I loved the contradiction in your very being– how you never claimed perfection despite the clearness that was in you. You never claimed a higher moral ground. I liked that. I think morality is an illusion. I loved how salvation didn’t mean anything to you.
I couldn’t save you if I wanted to.
I don’t know how to save myself.
The answer isn’t love, love.
June 12, 2017
the wandering lost souls in the
i fed upon your tears like it was the only thing that
to think that i
would have lived an eternity with your
breath upon my shoulders,
the lights still shined on in
remind yourself that you matter,
June 11, 2017
how many times have
to the stars at
have you ever
sips from her
just to convince herself
(and not living
in the words you
June 10, 2017
i was nailed to
apparently desperation was a stronger drug
so you let me
fall too deep in-
my addiction to
the thought of everything